77^         :>' 


THE 


CHARACTER  SKETCHED 


THE  Boss  GIRL 


A  CHRISTMAS  STORY 


OTHER  SKETCHES 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  OLD  SWIMMJN'  HOLE,"  ETC. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE    BOWEN-MERRILL    CO 
1886 


COPYRIGHT,  1885. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


CARLON  A  HOLLENBECK, 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS, 

INDIANAPOLIS. 


CONTENTS. 


GOD  BLESS  US  EVERY  ONE 6 

THE  BOSS  GIRL 7 

BELLS  JANGLED  .       50 

AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC     51 

LITTLE  TOMMY  SMITH 74 

TOD 75 

FAME 98 

A  REMARKABLE  MAN 101 

OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES 126 

A  NEST-EGG 127 

THE  BEETLE 142 

TALE  OF  A  SPIDER 143 

THE  ELF-CHILD 178 

WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH  ? 181 

THE  BAN 188 

ECCENTRIC  MR.  CLARK 201 

THE  BROOK 226 

"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 227 

THE  ORCHARD  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO 248 

THE  OLD  MAN  .  249 


13) 


209.1  .".87 


THE  Boss  GIRL. 


GOD  BLESS  VS  EVERT  ONK 

u  God  bless  us  every  one  !  "  prayed  Tiny  Timr 
Crippled,  and  dwarfed  of  body,  yet  so  tall 
Of  soul,  we  tiptoe  earth  to  look  on  him, 
High  towering  over  all. 

He  loved  the  loveless  world,  nor  dreamed,  indeed, 

That  it,  at  best,  could  give  to  him,  the  while, 
But  pitying  glances,  when  his  only  need 
Was  but  a  cheery  smile. 

And  thus  he  prayed,  l<  God  bless  us  every  one  !  " 

Enfolding  all  the  creeds  within  the  span 
Of  his  child-heart ;  and  so,  despising  none, 
Was  nearer  saint  than  man. 

I  like  to  fancy  God,  in  Paradise, 

Lifting  a  finger  o'er  the  rythmic  swing 
Of  chiming  harp  and  song,  with  eager  eyes 
Turned  earthward,  listening — 

The  Anthem  stilled — the  angels  leaning  there 

Above  the  golden  walls — the  morning  sun 
Of  Christmas  bursting  flower-like  with  the  prayer, 
<(  God  bless  us  Every  One!" 


(6) 


THE    BOSS    GIRL. 

ONE  week  ago  this  Christmas  day,  in 
the  little  back  office  that  adjoins  the 
counting-room  of  the  Daily  Journal,  I  sat  in 
genial  conversation  with  two  friends.  I  do 
not  now  recall  the  theme  of  our  discussion, 
but  the  general  trend  of  it — suggested,  doubt 
less,  by  the  busy  scene  upon  the  streets — I 
remember  most  distinctly,  savored  of  the 
mellowing  influences  of  the  coming  holidays, 
with  perhaps  an  acrid  tang  of  irony  as  we 
dwelt  upon  the  great  needs  of  the  poor  at 
such  a  time,  and  the  chariness  with  which 
the  hand  of  opulence  was  wont  to  dole  out 
alms.  But  for  all  that  we  were  merry,  and 
as  from  time  to  time  our  glances  fell  upon  the 
ever-shifting  scene  outside,  our  hearts  grew 
warmer,  and  within  the  eyes  the  old  dreams 
glimmered  into  fuller  dawn.  It  was  during 
a  lull  of  conversation,  and  while  the  phil 
anthropic  mind,  perchance,  was  wandering 
amid  the  outer  throng,  and  doubtless  quoting 
to  itself  "Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad," 
that  our  privacy  was  abruptly  broken  into  by 


8  THE    BOSS    GIRL; 

the  grimy  apparition  of  a  boy  of  ten  ;  a  rag 
ged  little  fellow — not  the  stereotyped  edition 
of  the  street  waif,  but  a  cross  between  the 
boot-black  and  the  infantine  Italian  with  the 
violin.  Where  he  had  entered,  and  how, 
would  have  puzzled  us  to  answer ;  but  there 
he  stood  before  us,  as  it  were,  in  a  majesty 
of  insignificance.  I  have  never  had  the  feat 
ures  of  a  boy  impress  me  as  did  his,  and  as  I 
stole  a  covert  glance  at  my  companions  I  was 
pleased  to  find  the  evidence  of  more  than  or 
dinary  interest  in  their  faces.  They  gazed 
in  attentive  silence  on  the  little  fellow,  as, 
with  uncovered,  frowzy  head,  he  stepped 
boldly  forward,  yet  with  an  air  of  deference 
as  unlocked  for  as  becoming. 

"I  don't  want  to  bother  you  gentlemens," 
he  began,  in  a  frank  but  hesitating  tone,  that 
rippled  hurriedly  along  as  he  marked  a  gen 
eral  nod  of  indulgence  for  the  interruption. 
"  I  don't  want  to  bother  nobody,  but  if  I  can 
raise  fifty  cents — and  I've  got  a  nickel — and 
if  I  can  raise  the  rest — and  it  aint  much,  you 
know — on'y  forty-five — and  if  I  can  raise  the 
rest — I  tell  you,  gentlemens,"  he  broke  off 
abruptly — and  speaking  with  italicized  sin 
cerity — "I  want  jist  fifty  cents,  cos  I  can  git 
a  blackin'-box  for  that,  and  brush  and  every 
thing,  and  you  can  bet  if  I  had  that  I  would- 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  9 

n't  have  to  ask  nobody  for  nothin',  and  I  aint 
got  no  father  nor  mother,  nor  brother  nor — 
nor — no  sisters,  neither  ;  but  that  don't  make 
no  difference,  cos  I'll  work — at  anything — yes 
sir — when  I  can  git  anything  to  do — and  I 
sleep  jist  any  place — and  I  aint  had  no  break 
fast — and,  honest,  gentlemens,  I'm  a  good 
boy — I  don't  swear  nor  smoke  nor  chew — but 

that's  all  right — on'y  if  you'll jist  make  up 

forty-five  between  you — and  that's  on'y  fif 
teen  cents  apiece — I'll  thank  you,  I  will,  and 
I'll  jist  do  anything — and  it's  coming  Christ 
mas,  and  I'll  roll  in  the  nickels,  don't  you  for 
get — if  I  on'y  got  a  box — cos  I  throw  up  a 
'  bad  '  shine  ! — and  I  can  git  the  box  for  fifty 
cents  if  you  gentlemens  '11  on'y  make  up  for 
ty-five  between  you."  At  the  conclusion  of 
this  long  and  rambling  appeal,  the  little  fel 
low  stood  waiting  with  an  eager  face  for  a 
response. 

A  look  of  stoical  deliberation  played  about 
the  features  of  the  oldest  member  of  the  group, 
as  with  an  air  of  seriousness,  which,  I  think, 
even  the  boy  recognized  as  affected,  he  asked  : 

"And  you  couldn't  get  a  box  like  that  for — 
say  forty  cents?  Fifty  cents  looks  like  a  lot 
of  money  to  lay  out  in  the  purchase  of  a  black 
ing-box." 

The  bov  smiled  wiselv  as  he  answered  : 


IO  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

"Yes,  it  might  look  big  to  a  feller  that  aint 
up  on  prices,  but  I  think  it's  cheap,  cos  it's  a 
second-hand  box,  and  a  new  one  would  cost 
seventy-five  cents  anyhow — 'thout  no  brushes 
nor  nothin'." 

In  the  meantime  I  had  dropped  into  the  lit 
tle  fellow's  palm  the  only  coin  I  had  in  my 
possession,  and  we  all  laughed  as  he  closed 
his  thanks  with  "Oh,  come,  Cap,  go  the  other 
nickel,  or  I  won't  git  out  o'  here  with  half 
enough  !"  and  at  that  he  turned  to  the  former 
speaker. 

"Well,  really,"  said  that  gentleman,  fum 
bling  in  his  pockets,  "I  don't  believe  I've  got 
a  dime  with  me." 

"A  dime,"  said  the  little  fellow,  with  a  look 
of  feigned  compassion.  "Aint  got  a  dime? 
Maybe  I'd  loan  you  this  one  !  "  And  we  all 
laughed  again. 

"Tell  you  what  do  now,"  said  the  boy,  tak 
ing  advantage  of  the  moment,  and  looking 
coaxingly  into  the  smiling  eyes  of  the  gen 
tleman  still  fumbling  vainly  in  his  pockets. 
"  Tell  you  what  do  ;  you  borry  twenty  cents 
of  the  man  that  stays  behind  the  counter  there, 
and  then  we'll  go  the  other  fifteen,  and  that'll 
make  it,  and  I'll  skip  out  o'  here  a  little  the 
flyest  boy  you  ever  see  !  What  do  ye  soy?" 
And  the  little  fellow  struck  a  Pat  Rooney  at- 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  II 

titude  that  would  have  driven  the  original  in 
ventor  mad  with  envy. 

"  Give  him  a  quarter  !  "  laughed  the  gentle 
man  appealed  to. 

"And  here's  the  other  dime,"  and  as  the 
little  fellow  clutched  the  money  eagerly,  he 
turned,  and  in  a  tone  of  curious  gravity,  he 
said  : 

"Now,  honest,  gentlemens,  I  aint  a-givin? 
you  no  game  about  the  box — cos  a  new  one 
costs  seventy-five  cents,  and  the  one  I've  got 
— I  mean  the  one  I'm  agoin'  to  git — is  jist 
as  good  as  a  new  one,  on'y  it's  second-hand, 
and  I'm  much  obliged,  gentlemens — honest, 
I  am — and  if  ever  I  give  you  a  shine  you  can 
jist  bet  it  don't  cost  you  nothin' !  " 

And  with  this  expression  of  his  gratitude, 
the  little  fellow  vanished  as  mysteriously  as 
he  had  at  first  appeared. 

"  That  boy  hasn't  a  bad  face,"  said  the  first 
speaker — "  wide  between  the  eyes — full  fore 
head — good  mouth — denoting  firmness — alto 
gether,  a  good,  square  face." 

"And  a  noble  one,"  said  I,  perhaps  in 
spired  to  that  rather  lofty  assertion  by  the  re 
hearsal  of  the  good  points  noted  by  my  more 
observant  compan-ion. 

"  Yes,  and  an  honest,  straightforward  way 
of  talking,  I  would  say,"  continued  that 


12  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

gentleman.  "  I  only  noted  one  thing  to 
shake  my  faith  in  that  particular,  and  that 
was  in  his  latest  reference  to  the  box.  You'll 
remember  his  saying  he  was  '  giving  us  no 
game  '  about  it,  whereas,  he  had  not  been  ac 
cused  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  he  meant  about  the  price,  don't  you 
remember?"  said  I. 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman  at  the  counter, 
"  you're  both  wrong.  He  only  threw  in  that 
remark  because  he  thought  I  suspected  him, 
for  he  recognized  me  just  the  instant  before 
that  speech,  and  it  confused  him,  and  with 
some  reason, as  you  will  see.  Onmy  way  to  sup 
per  only  last  night,  I  overtook  that  same  little 
fellow  in  charge  of  an  old  man  who  was  in  a 
deplorable  state  of  drunkenness;  and  you  know 
how  slippery  the  streets  were.  I  think  if  that 
old  man  fell  a  single  time  he  fell  a  dozen,  and 
once  so  violently  that  I  ran  to  his  assistance 
and  helped  him  to  his  feet.  I  thought  him 
badly  hurt  at  first,  for  he  gashed  his  forehead 
as  he  fell,  and  I  helped  the  little  fellow  to  take 
him  into  a  drug  store,  where  the  wound,  up 
on  examination,  proved  to  be  nothing  more 
serious  than  to  require  a  strip  of  plaster.  I 
got  a  good  look  at  the  boy,  there,  however, 
and  questioned  him  a  little,  and  he  said  the 
man  was  his  father,  and  he  was  taking  hinv 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  1 3 

home,  and  I  gathered  further  from  his  talk 
that  the  man  was  a  confirmed  inebriate.  Now 
you'll  remember  the  boy  told  us  here  a  while 
ago  he  had  no  father,  and  when  he  recognized 
me  a  moment  since  and  found  himself  caught 
in  a  'yarn,'  at  least,  he  very  naturally  sup 
posed  I  would  think  his  entire  story  a  fabrica 
tion,  hence  the  suspicious  nature  of  his  last 
remarks,  and  the  sudden  transition  of  his 
manner  from  that  of  real  delight  to  gravity, 
which  change,  in  my  opinion,  rather  denotes 
lying  to  be  a  new  thing  to  him.  I  can't  be 
mistaken  in  the  boy,  for  I  noticed,  as  he  turned 
to  go,  a  bald  place  on  the  back  of  his  head,  the 
left  side,  a  '  trade-mark,'  first  discovered  last 
evening,  as  he  bent  over  the  prostrate  form 
of  his  father." 

"  I  noticed  a  thin  spot  in  his  hair,"  said  Ir 
"  and  wondered  at  the  time  what  caused  it."" 

"And  don't  you  know?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Coal-bins  and  entry  floors — that  little  fel 
low  hasn't  slept  within  a  bed  for  years,  per 
haps." 

"But  he  told  you,  as  you  say,  last  night. 
he  was  taking  the  old  man  home?  " 

"Yes,  home!  I  can  imagine  that  boy's 
home.  There  are  dozens  like  it  in  the  city 
here — a  cellar  or  a  shed — a  box  cat  or  a  loft 


14  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

in  some  old  shop,  with  a  father  to  chase  him 
from  it  in  his  sober  interludes,  and  to  hold 
him  from  it  in  unconscious  shame  when  help 
lessly  drunk.  *  Home,  Sweet  Home  ! '  That 
boy  has  heard  it  on  the  hand-organ,  perhaps, 
but  never  in  his  heart — you  couldn't  grind  it 
out  of  there  with  a  thousand  cranks." 

The  remainder  of  that  day  eluded  me 
somehow ;  I  don't  know  how  or  where  it 
passed.  I  suppose  it  just  dropped  into  a 
comatose  condition,  and  so  slipped  away  "  un- 
knelled,  uncoffined  and  unknown." 

But  one  clear  memory  survives — an  expe 
rience  so  vividly  imprinted  on  my  mind  that 
I  now  recall  its  every  detail :  Entering  the 
Union  Depot  that  evening  to  meet  the  train 
that  was  to  carry  me  away  at  six  o'clock, 
muffled  closely  in  my  overcoat,  yet  more 
closely  muffled  in  my  gloomy  thoughts,  I  was 
rather  abruptly  stopped  by  a  small  boy  with 
the  cry  of:  "  Here,  you  man  with  the  cigar ; 
don't  you  want  them  boots  blacked?  Shine 
'em  for  ten  cents  !  Shine  'em  for  a  nickel — 
on'y  you  mustn't  give  me  away  on  that,"  he 
added,  dropping  on  his  knees  near  the  en 
trance,  and  motioning  me  to  set  my  foot  upon 
the  box. 

It  was  then  too  dark  for  me  to  see  his  face 
clearly,  but  I  had  recognized  the  voice  the 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  15 

instant  he  had  spoken,  and  had  paused  and 
looked  around. 

"  Oh,  you'll  have  plenty  o'  time,"  he  urged, 
guessing  at  the  cause  of  my  apparent  hesita 
tion.  "  None  o'  the  trains  are  on  time  to-night 
— on'y  the  Panhandle,  and  she's  jist  a  backin' 
in — won't  start  for  thirty  minutes,"  and  he 
again  beckoned,  and  rattled  a  seductive  tat 
too  on  the  side  of  his  box. 

"Well,"  said  I  with  a  compromising  air; 
"  come  inside,  then,  out  of  the  cold." 

"'Gainst  the  rules — cops  won't  have  it. 
They  jist  fired  me  out  o'  there  not  ten  minutes 
ago.  Oh,  come,  Cap  ;  step  out  here  ;  it  won't 
take  two  minutes,"  and  the  little  fellow  spat 
professionally  upon  his  brush,  with  a  covert 
glance  of  pleasure  as  he  noted  the  apparent 
success  of  the  maneuver.  "You  don't  live 
here,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  boy,  setting  the  first 
boot  on  the  box,  and  pausing  to  blow  his 
hands. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  Did  you  never 
see  me  here  before?  " 

"  No,  I  never  see  you  here  before,  but  that 
aint  no  reason.  I  can  tell  you  don't  live  here 
by  them  shoes — cos  they've  been  put  up  in 
some  little  pennyroyal  shop, — that's  how. 
When  you  want  a  '  fly  '  shoe  you  want  to  git 
her  put  up  somers  where  they  know  somepin' 


l6  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

about  style.  They's  good  enough  metal  in 
that  shoe,  only  she's  about  two  years  oft'  in 
style." 

"You're  posted,  then,  in  shoes,"  said  Ir 
with  a  laugh. 

"I  ort  to  be,"  he  went  on,  pantingly,  a 
brush  in  either  hand  gyrating  with  a  velocity 
that  jostled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  leaving  most 
plainly  exposed  to  my  investigative  eye  the 
"trade-mark"  before  alluded  to;  "I  ort  to 
be  posted  in  shoes,  cos  I  ain't  done  nothin'  but 
black  'em  for  five  years." 

"You're  an  old  hand,  then,  at  the  busi 
ness,"  said  I.  "  I  didn't  know  but  maybe 
you  were  just  starting  out.  What's  an  outfit 
like  that  worth?" 

"  Thinkin'  o'  startin'  up?"  he  asked  face 
tiously. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  I,  good-humoredly.  "  I  just 
asked  out  of  idle  curiosity.  That's  a  new  box, 
ain't  it?" 

"  New  !"  he  repeated  with  a  laugh.  "  Put 
up  that  other  hoof.  New?  W'y  if  that  box 
had  ever  had  eyes  like  a  human  it  would  a- 
been  a-wearin'  specs  by  this  time ;  that's  a 
old,  bald-headed  box,  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave." 

"And  what  did  the  old  fellow  cost  you?  "  I 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  17 

asked,  highly  amused  at  the  quaint  expres 
sions  of  the  boy. 

"Cost?  Cost  nothin1 — on'y  about  an  hour's 
work.  I  made  that  box  myself,  about  four 
years  ago." 

"Ah!"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  they  don't  cost  no- 
thin'  ;  the  boys  makes  'em  out  o'  other  boxes, 
you  know.  Some  of  'em  gits  'em  made,  but 
they  ain't  no  good — ain't  no  better'n  this  kind." 

"  So  that  didn't  cost  you  anything?  "  said  I, 
"  though  I  suspect  you  wouldn't  like  to  part 
with  it  for  less  than — well,  I  don't  know  how 
much  money  to  say — seventy-five  cents,  maybe 
— would  anything  less  than  seventy-five  cents 
buy  it?"  I  craftilv  interrogated. 

"  Seventy-five  cents  !  W'y,  what's  the  mat 
ter  with  you,  man?  I  could  get  a  cart-load 
of  'em  for  seventy-five  cents.  I'll  take  your 
measure  for  one  like  it  for  fifteen,  too  quick  I  " 
and  the  little  fellow  leaned  back  from  his  work 
and  laughed  up  in  my  face  with  absolute  de 
rision. 

I  pulled  my  hat  more  closely  down  for  fear 
of  recognition,  but  was  reassured  a  moment 
later  as  he  went  on  : 

"  Wisht  you  lived  here  ;  you'd  be  old  fruit 
for  us  fellows.     I  can  see  you  now  a-takin' 
2 


l8  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

wind — and  we'd  give  it  to  you  mighty  slick 
now,  don't  you  forgit !  "  and,  as  the  boy  re 
newed  his  work,  I  think  his  little  ragged  body 
shook  less  with  industry  than  mirth. 

"  Wisht  I'd  struck  you  'bout  ten  o'clock  this 
mornin'  !  "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  paused  again 
and  looked  up  in  my  face  with  real  regret. 
"Oh,  you'd  a  been  the  loveliest  sucker  of 'em 
all !  W'y  you'd  a  went  the  whole  pot  your 
self!  " 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  said  I,  dropping  the 
cigar  I  held. 

"  How  do  I  mean?  Oh,  you  don't  want  to 
smoke  this  thing  again  after  it's  a-rolling  round 
here  in  the  dirt !  " 

"Why,  you  don't  smoke,"  said  I,  still 
reaching  for  the  cigar  he  held  behind  him. 

"Me?  Oh,  what  you  givin'  me?" 

"Come,  let  me  have  it,"  I  said  sharply, 
drawing  a  case  from  my  pocket  and  taking 
out  another  cigar. 

"  Oh,  you  want  a  light,"  he  said,  handing 
me  the  stub  and  watching  me  wistfully. 
"  Couldn't  give  us  a  fresh  cigar,  could  you, 
Cap?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I,  as  though  delib 
erating  on  the  matter.  "What  was  that  you 
were  going  to  tell  me  just  now  ?  You  started 
to  tell  me  what  a  'lovely  sucker'  I'd  have 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  19 

been  had  you  met  me  this  morning.  How 
•did  you  mean?" 

"  Give  me  a  cigar  and  I'll  tell  you.  Oh, 
come,  now,  Cap  ;  give  me  a  smoker  and  I'll 
give  you  the  whole  game.  I  will,  now,  hon 
est !" 

I  held  out  the  open  case. 

"  Nothin'  mean  about  you,  is  they?"  he 
said,  eagerly  taking  a  fresh  cigar  in  one  hand 
and  the  stub  in  the  other.  "A  ten-center, 
too — oh,  I  guess  not!"  but,  to  my  surprise, 
he  took  the  stub  between  his  lips,  and  began 
opening  his  coat.  "Guess  I'll  jist  fat  this 
daisy,  and  save  'er  up  for  Christmas.  No,  I 
won't,  either,"  he  broke  in  suddenly,  with  a 
bright,  keen  flash  of  second  thought.  "Tell 
you  what  I'll  do,"  holding  up  the  cigar  and 
gazing  at  it  admiringly  ;  "  she's  a  ten-center, 
ain't  she?  " 

I  nodded. 

"And  worth  every  cent  of  it,  too,  ain't  she?" 

"Every  cent  of  it,"  I  repeated. 

"  Then  give  me  a  nickel,  and  she's  yourn — 
cos  if  you  can  afford  to  give  it  to  me  for 
nothin',  looks  like  I  ort  to  let  you  have  it  for 
half  price,"  and  as  I  laughingly  dropped  the 
nickel  in  his  hand  he  concluded,  "And  there's 
nothin'  mean  about  me,  neither." 

"Now,  go  on   with   your  story,"  said   I. 


2O  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

"  How  about  that  '  game'  you  were  '  giving/ 
this  morning?  " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Cap.  Us  fellers  has  got 
to  lay  for  every  nickel,  cos  none  of  us  is  bond 
holders  ;  and  they's  days  and  days  together 
when  we  don't  make  enough  to  even  starve 
on.  What  I  mean  is,  we  on'y  make  enough 
to  pay  for  agervatin'  our  appetites  with  jist 
about  enough  chuck  to  keep  us  starvin'-hun- 
gry.  So,  you  see,  when  a  feller  ain't  got 
nothin'  else  to  do,  and  his  appetite  won't 
sleep  in  the  same  bunk  with  him,  he's  bound 
to  git  onto  somepin'  crooked,  and  git  up  all 
sorts  o'  dodges  to  git  along.  Some  gives  'em 
one  thing,  and  some  another,  but  you  bet  they 
got  to  be  mighty  slick  now,  cos  people  won't 
have  '  orphans,'  and  '  fits,'  and  '  cripples,'  and 
'  drunk  fathers,'  and  '  mothers  that  eats  mor 
phine,'  and  'white  swellin','  and  'consump 
tion,'  and  all  that  sort  o'  taffy  !  Got  to  git  'er 
down  finer'n  that ;  but  I  been  a  gittin'  in 
my  work  all  the  same,  don't  you  forgit !  You 
won't  ever  blow,  now?" 

"  How  could  I  'blow,'  and  what  if  I  did? 
I  don't  live  here,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  you  better  never  blow,  anyhow; 
cos  if  ever  us  duffers  would  git  onto  it  you'd 
be  a  spiled  oyster  !" 

"  Go  on,"  said  I,  with  an  assuring  tone. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  21 

"The  lay  I'm  on  jist  no\v,"  he  continued, 
•dropping  his  voice  and  looking  cautiously 
around,  "is  a-hidin'  my  box  and  a-rushin' 
in,  sudden-like,  \vhere  they's  a  crowd  o'  nobs 
a-talkin'  politics  or  somepin',  and  a  jist  startin' 
in,  and  'fore  they  know  what's  a-comin'  I'm 
a-flashin'  up  a  nickel  or  a  dime,  and  a-tellin' 
'em  if  I  on'y  had  enough  more  to  make  fifty 
cents  I  could  buy  a  blackin'-box,  and  wouldn't 
have  to  ask  no  boot  o'  my  grandmother ;  and 
two  minutes  chinnin'  does  it,  don't  you  see, 
cos  they  don't  know  nothin'  about  blackin'- 
boxes  ;  they're  jist  as  soft  as  you  are.  They 
got  an  idy,  maybe,  that  blackin'-boxes  comes 
all  the  way  from  Chiny,  with  cokey  nut  whis 
kers  packed  around  'em  ;  and  I  make  it  solid 
by  a-sayin'  I'm  cn'y  goin'  to  git  a  second 
hand  box — see?  But  that  ain't  the  pint — it's 
the  Mr.  Nickel  I  already  got.  Oh !  it'll  par 
alyze  'em  every  time !  Sometimes  fellers'll 
make  up  seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar,  and 
tell  me  to  git  a  new  box,  and  '  go  into  the  busi 
ness  right.'  That's  a  thing  that  always  rat 
tles  me.  Now,  if  they'd  on'y  growl  a  little 
and  look  like  they  was  jist  a  puttin'  up  cos 
the  first  one  did,  I  can  stand  it;  but  when 
they  go  to  pattin'  me  on  the  head,  and  a-tellin' 
me  'that's  right,'  and  'not  to  be  afeard  o' 
work,'  and  I'll  '  come  out  all  right,'  and  a- 


22  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

tellin'  me  to  '  git  a  good  substantial  box  while 
I'm  a-gittin','  and  a-ponyin'  up  handsome, 
there's  where  I  weaken — I  do,  honest !  "  And 
never  so  plainly  as  at  that  moment  did  I  see 
within  his  face  and  in  his  eyes  the  light  of 
true  nobility. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
half  courage,  half  apology,  "  I've  got  a  fam 
ily  on  my  hands,  and  I  jist  got  to  git  along 
somehow.  I  could  git  along  on  the  square 
deal  as  long  as  mother  was  alive — cos  she'd 
work — but  ever  sence  she  died — and  that  was 
winter  'fore  last — I've  kindo  had  to  double  on 
the  old  thing  all  sorts  o'  ways.  But  Sis  don't 
know  it.  Sis  thinks  I'm  the  squarest  mul- 
doon  in  the  business,"  and  even  side  by  side 
with  the  homely  utterance  a  great  sigh  fal 
tered  from  his  lips. 

"And  who  is  Sis?  "  I  inquired  with  new  in 
terest. 

"Sis?"  he  repeated,  knocking  my  foot 
from  the  box,  and  leaning  back,  still  in  the 
old  position,  his  hat  lying  on  the  ground  be 
side  him,  and  his  frowsy  hair  tossed  backward 
from  the  full,  broad  brow — "Who's  Sis?"  he 
repeated  with  an  upward  smile  that  almost 
dazzled  me — "  W'y,  Sis  is — is — wr'y,  Sis  is 
the  boss  girl — and  don't  you  forgit  it !  " 

No  need  had  he  to  tell  me  more  than  this. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  23 

I  knew  who  "  Sis  "  was  by  the  light  of  pride 
in  the  uplifted  eyes  ;  I  knew  who  "  Sis  "  was 
by  the  exultation  in  the  broken  voice,  and  the 
half-defiant  tossing  of  the  frowsy  head ;  I 
knew  who  "  Sis "  was  by  the  little  naked 
hands  thrown  upward  openly ;  I  knew  who 
"  Sis"  was  by  the  tear  that  dared  to  trickle 
through  the  dirt  upon  her  ragged  brother's 
face.  And  don't  you  forget  it! 

0  that  boy  down  there  upon  his  knees ! — • 
there  in  the  cinders  and  the  dirt — so  far,  far 
down  beneath  us  that  we  trample  on  his  breast 
and  grind  our  heels  into  his  very  heart ;    O 
that  boy  there,  with  his  lifted  eyes,  and  God's 
own  glory  shining  in  his  face,  has  taught  me, 
with  an  eloquence  beyond  the  trick  of  mellow- 
sounding  words  and  metaphor,  that  love  may 
find  a  purer  home  beneath  the  rags  of  poverty 
and  vice  than  in  all  the  great  warm  heart  of 
charity. 

1  hardly  knew  what  impulse  prompted  me, 
but  as  the  boy  rose  to  his  feet  and  held  his 
hand  out  for  the  compensation  for  his  work, 
I   caught   the  little   dingy  palm   close,   close 
within  my  own,  and  wrung  it  as  I  would  have 
wrung  the  hand  of  some  great  conqueror. 

The  little  fellow  stared  at  me  in  wonder 
ment,  and  although  his  lips  were  silent,  I  can 
but  believe  that  had  they  parted  with  the  ut- 


24 


THE    BOSS    GIRL 


terance  within  his  heart  my  feelings  had  re 
ceived  no  higher  recognition  than  the  old 
contemptuous  phrase,  "  Oh,  what  you  givin' 
me?" 

"And  so  you've  got  a  family  on  your 
hands?"  I  inquired,  recovering  an  air  of  sim 
ple  curiosity,  and  toying  in  my  pocket  with 
some  bits  of  change.  "  How  much  of  a  fam 
ily?" 

"On'y  three  of  us  now." 

"Only  three  of  you,  eh?  Yourself,  and  Sis, 
and — and — " 

"The  old  man,"  said  the  boy,  uneasily; 
and  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  seemed  to  swal 
low  an  utterance  more  bitter,  he  added,  "And 
he  aint  no  good  on  earth  !  " 

"  Can't  work?  "  I  queried. 

"  Won't  work,"  said  the  boy,  bitterly.  "He 
won't  work  —  he  won't  do  nothin' — on'y 
'budge !  '  And  I  have  to  steer  him  in  every 
night,  cos  the  cops  won't  pull  him  any  more 
— they  won't  let  him  in  the  station-house 
mor'n  they'd  let  him  in  a  parlor,  cos  he's  a 
plum  goner,  and  liable  to  '  croak '  any  min 
ute." 

"Liable  to  what?"  said  I. 

"Liable  to  jist  keel  over — wink  out,  you 
know — cos  he  has  fits,  kindo  jim-jams,  I  guess. 
Had  a  fearful  old  matinee  with  him  last 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  25 

night !  You  see  he  comes  all  sorts  o'  games 
on  me,  and  I  have  to  put  up  for  him — cos 
he's  got  to  have  whisky,  and  if  we  can 
on'y  keep  him  about  so  full  he's  a  regular 
lamb,  but  he  don't  stand  no  monkeyin'  when 
he  wants  whisky,  now  you  bet !  Sis  can 
handle  him  better'n  me,  but  she's  been  a 
losin'  her  grip  on  him  lately — you  see  Sis 
ain't  stout  any  more,  and  been  kindo  sick- 
like  so  long  she  humors  him,  you  know, 
mor'n  she  ort.  And  he  couldn't  git  on  his 
pins  at  all  yesterday  mornin',  and  Sis  sent  for 
me,  and  I  took  him  down  a  pint,  and  that  set 
him  a  runnin'  so  that  when  I  left  he  made  Sis 
give  up  a  quarter  he  saw  me  slip  her,  and  it 
jist  happened  I  run  into  him  that  evening  and 
got  him  in,  or  he'd  a  froze  to  death.  I  guess 
he  must  a  kindo  had  'em  last  night,  cos  he 
was  the  wildest  man  you  ever  see — saw  grass 
hoppers  with  paper  collars  on,  an'  old  sows 
with  feather-duster  tails,  the  durndest  pro 
gramme  you  ever  heard  of!  And  he  got  so 
bad  onct  he  was  a  goin'  to  belt  Sis,  and  did 
try  it,  and — and  I  had  to  chug  him  one  or 
he'd  a  done  it.  And  then  he  cried,  and  Sis 

cried,  and  I  cri ,  I —      Dern  him  !     You 

can  bet  your  life  /  didn't  cry."  And  as  the 
boy  spoke,  the  lips  quivered  into  stern  com 
pression,  the  little  hands  gripped  closer  at  his 


26  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

side,  but  for  all  that  the  flashing  eye  grew 
blurred  and  the  lids  dropped  downward. 

"That's  a  boss  shine  on  them  shoes." 

I  was  mechanically  telling  over  in  my  hand 
the  three  small  coins  I  had  drawn  from  my 
pocket. 

"  That  is  a  nice  job  !  "  said  I,  gazing  with 
an  unusual  show  of  admiration  at  the  work, 
"  and  I  thought,"  continued  I,  with  real  re 
gret,  "  that  I  had  two  dimes  and  a  nickel 
here,  and  was  thinking  that  as  these  were 
Christmas  times,  I'd  just  give  you  a  quarter 
for  your  work." 

"  Honest,  Cap!  " 

"  Honest !  "  I  repeated,  "but  the  fact  is  the 
two  dimes,  as  I  thought  they  were,  are  only 
two  three-cent  pieces,  so  I  only  have  eleven 
cents  in  change,  after  all." 

"  Spect  they'd  change  a  bill  for  you  'crost 
there  at  the  lunch  counter,"  he  suggested 
with  charming  artlessness. 

"Won't  have  time — there's  my  train  just 
coupling — but  take  this — I'll  see  you  again 
sometime,  perhaps." 

"  How  big  a  bill  is  it  you  want  changed?" 
asked  the  little  fellow,  with  a  most  acquisitive 
expression,  and  a  swift  glance  at  our  then 
lonely  surroundings. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  2/ 

"  I  have  only  one  bill  with  me,"  said  I  ner 
vously,  "  and  that's  a  five." 

"  Well,  here  then,"  said  the  boy  hurriedly, 
with  another  and  more  scrutinizing  glance 
about  him — "guess  I  can  accommodate  you." 
And  as  I  turned  in  wonder,  he  drew  from 
some  mysterious  recess  in  the  lining  of  his- 
coat,  a  roll  of  bills,  from  which  he  hastily  de 
tached  four  in  number,  returned  the  roll,  and 
before  I  had  recovered  my  surprise,  had 
whisked  the  note  from  my  fingers,  and  left  ir* 
my  hand  instead  the  proper  change. 

"  This  is  on  the  dead,  now,  Cap.  Don't 
you  ever  cheep  about  me  havin'  wealth,  you 
know  ;  cos  it  aint  mine — that  is  it's  mine,  but 
I'm  a — there  goes  your  train.  Ta-ta  !  " 

"The  day  before  Christmas,"  said  I,  snatch 
ing  his  hand,  and  speaking  hurriedly,  "  the 
day  before  Christmas  I'm  coming  back,  and 
if  you'll  be  here  when  the  5  130  train  rolls  in 
you'll  find  a  man  that  wants  his  boots  blacked 
— maybe  to  get  married  in,  or  something — 
anyway  he'll  want  a  shine  like  this,  and  he'll 
come  prepared  to  pay  the  highest  market  price 
— do  you  understand?  " 

"  You  jist  tell  that  feller  for  me,"  said  the 
boy,  eclipsing  the  twinkle  of  one  eye,  and 
dropping  his  voice  to  an  inflection  of  strict- 


28  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

est  confidence,  "  you  jist  tell  that  feller  for  me 
that  I'm  his  oyster." 

"And  you'll  meet  him,  sure?"  said  I. 

"  I  will,"  said  the  boy.  Arid  he  kept  his 
word. 

My  ride  home  was  an  incoherent  fluttering 
of  the  wings  of  time,  in  which  travail  one  fret 
ful  hour  was  born,  to  gasp  its  first  few  min 
utes  helplessly  ;  then  moan,  roll  over  and  kick 
out  its  legs  and  sprawl  about,  then  cra\vl  a 
little — stagger  to  its  feet  and  totter  on  ;  then 
tumble  down  a  time  or  two  and  knock  its 
empty  head  against  the  floor  and  howl ;  then 
loom  up  awkwardly  on  gangling  legs,  too 
much  in  their  own  way  to  comprehend  that 
they  were  in  the  way  of  everybody  else  ;  then 
limp  a  little  as  it  worried  on — drop  down  ex 
hausted — moan  again — toss  up  its  hands — 
shriek  out,  and  die  in  violent  convulsions. 

We  have  all  had  that  experience  of  the  car- 
wheels — had  them  enter  into  conversation  with 
us  as  we  gaily  embarked  upon  some  pleasant 
trip,  perhaps  ;  had  them  rattle  off  in  scraps  of 
song,  or  lightly  twit  us  with  some  dear  one's 
name,  or  even  go  so  far  as  to  laugh  at  us  and 
mock  us  for  some  real  or  fancied  dereliction  of 
car  etiquette.  I  shall  ever  have  good  reason  to 
remember  how  once  upon  a  time  a  boy  of 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  2£ 

fourteen,  though  greatly  undersize,  told  the 
conductor  he  was  only  ten,  and  although 
the  unsuspecting  official  accepted  the  state 
ment  as  a  truth,  with  the  proper  reduction  in 
the  fare,  the  car-wheels  called  that  boy  a 
"  liar  "  for  twenty  miles — and  twenty  miles  as 
long  and  tedious  as  he  has  ever  compassed  in 
his  journey  through  this  vale  of  tears. 

The  car-wheels  on  this  bitter  winter  evening 
were  not  at  all  communicative.  They  were 
sullen  and  morose.  They  didn't  feel  like  sing 
ing,  and  they  wouldn't  laugh.  They  had  no- 
jokes,  and  if  there  was  one  peculiar  quality 
of  tone  they  possessed  in  any  marked  degree 
it  was  that  of  sneering.  They  had  a  harshr 
discordant  snarl  as  it  seemed,  and  were  spite 
ful  and  insinuating. 

The  topic  they  had  chosen  for  that  night's 
consideration  was  evidently  of  a  very  complex 
and  mysterious  nature,  and  they  gnawed  and 
mumbled  at  it  with  such  fierceness,  and, 
withal,  such  selfishness,  I  could  only  catch  a 
flying  fragment  of  it  now  and  then,  and  that  I 
noticed  was  of  the  coarsest  fiber  of  intelli 
gence,  and  of  slangy  flavor.  Listening  with 
the  most  painful  interest,  I  at  last  made  out 
the  fact  that  the  inflection  seemed  to  be  in  the 
interrogative,  and  with  anxiety  the  most  in 
tense,  I  slowly  came  to  comprehend  that 


3O  THK    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

they  were  desirous  of  ascertaining  the  exact 
•distance  between  two  given  points,  but  the 
proposition  seemed  determined  not  to  round 
into  fuller  significance  than  to  query  mock 
ingly,  "  How  fur  is  it?  How  fur  is  it?  How 
fur,  how  fur,  how  fur  -is  it?  "  and  so  on 
to  a  most  exasperating  limit.  Ac  this  sense 
less  phrase  was  repeated  and  reiterated  in 
its  growing  harshness  and  unchanging  in 
tonation,  the  relentless  pertinacity  of  the  query 
grew  simply  agonizing,  and  when  at  times 
the  car-door  opened  to  admit  a  brakemaii,  or 
the  train  boy,  who  had  everything  to  sell  but 
what  I  wanted,  the  emphasized  refrain  would 
lift  me  from  my  seat  and  drag  me  up  and 
down  the  aisle.  When  the  phrase  did  event 
ually  writhe  round  into  form  and  shade  more 
tangible,  my  relief  was  such  that  I  sat  down, 
and  in  my  fancy  framed  a  grim,  unlovely 
tune  that  suited  it,  and  hummed  with  it,  in  an 
undertone  of  dismal  satisfaction: 

"How  fur — how  fur 
Is  it  from  here — 

From  here  to  Happiness?" 

When  I  returned  that  same  refrain  rode 
back  into  the  city  with  me !  All  the  gay 
metropolis  was  robing  for  the  banquet  and 
the  ball.  All  the  windows  of  the  crowded 


A   CHRISTMAS    STORY.  31 

thoroughfares  were  kindling  into  splendor. 
Along  the  streets  rolled  lordly  carriages  so 
weighted  down  with  costly  silks,  and  furs,  and 
twinkling  gems,  and  unknown  treasures  in 
unnumbered  packages,  that  one  lone  ounce 
of  needed  charity  would  have  snapped  their 
axles,  and  a  feather's  weight  of  pure  be 
nevolence  would  have  splintered  every  spoke. 
And  the  old  refrain  rode  with  me  through 
it  all — as  stoical,  relentless  and  unchangeable 
as  fate — and  in  the  same  depraved  and  slangy 
tone  in  which  it  seemed  to  find  an  especial 
pride,  it  sang,  and  sang  again : 

"  How  fur — how  fur 
Is  it  from  here — 

From  here  to  Happiness?" 

The  train  that  for  five  minutes  had  been  les 
sening  in  speed  toiled  painfully  along,  and  as 
I  arose  impatiently  and  reached  behind  me 
for  my  overcoat,  a  cheery  voice  cried,  "Hel 
lo,  Cap  I  Want  a  lift?  I'll  help  you  with 
that  '  benjamin'  ;  "  and  as  I  looked  around  I 
saw  the  grimy  features  of  my  little  hero  of  the 
brush  and  box. 

"  Hello ! "  said  I,  as  much  delighted  as 
surprised.  "Where  did  you  drop  from?" 

"Oh,  I  collared  this  old  hearse  a  mile  or  so 
back  yonder,"  said  the  little  fellow  gaily, 


32  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

standing  on  the  seat  behind  me  and  holding 
up  the  coat.  "  Been  a-doin'  circus  business 
on  the  steps  out  there  for  half  an  hour.  You 
bet  I  had  my  eye  on  you,  all  the  same, 
though." 

o 

"You  had,  eh?"  I  exclaimed,  gladly,  al 
though  I  instinctively  surmised  his  highest  in 
terest  in  me  was  centered  in  my  pocket-book. 
"You  have,  eh?"  I  repeated,  with  more  ear 
nestness.  "Well,  I'm  glad  of  that,  Charlie — 
or,  what  is  your  name?"  "Squatty,"  said 
the  boy.  Then  noticing  the  look  of  surprise 
upon  my  face,  he  added  soberly:  "That  aint 
my  '  sure-enough  '  name,  you  know ;  that's 
what  the  boys  calls  me.  Sis  calls  me  Jamesy." 

"Well,  Jamesy,"  I  continued,  buttoning 
my  collar  and  drawing  on  my  gloves,  "  I'm 
mighty  glad  to  see  you,  and  if  you  don't  be 
lieve  it,  just  go  down  in  that  right-hand  over 
coat  pocket  and  you'll  find  out." 

The  little  fellow  needed  no  second  invita 
tion,  and  as  he  drew  forth  a  closely-folded 
package  the  look  of  curiosity  upon  his  face 
deepened  to  one  of  blank  bewilderment. 

"Open  it,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  little  puz 
zled  face  ;  "  open  it — it's  for  you." 

"  O,  here,  Cap,"  said  the  boy,  dropping 
the  package  on  the  seat,  and  holding  up  a 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  33 

rigid  finger,  "you're  a  givin'  me  this,  aint 
you?" 

"I'm  giving  you  the  package,  certainly," 
said  I  somewhat  bewildered.  "  Open  it — it's 
a  Christmas  present  for  you — open  it." 

"What's  your  idy  o'  layin'  for  me?"  asked 
the  boy,  with  a  troubled  and  uneasy  air. 
"I've  been  a-givin'  you  square  business  right 
along,  aint  I?  " 

"Why,  Jamesy,"  said  I,  as  I  vaguely  com 
prehended  the  real  drift  of  his  thought,  "  the 
package  is  for  you,  and  if  you  won't  open  it  I 
will,"  and  as  I  spoke  I  began  unfolding  it. 
"  Here,"  said  I,  "  is  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  little 
girl,  about  your  size,  told  me  to  give  to  you, 
because  I  was  telling  her  about  you,  over 
where  I  live,  and  it's  '  a  clear  case,' "  and  I 
laughed  lightly  to  myself  as  I  noticed  a  slow 
flush  creeping  to  his  face.  "And  here,"  said 
I,  "  is  a  'bang  up'  pair  of  good  old-fashioned 
socks,  and,  if  they'll  fit  you,  there's  an  old 
woman  that  wears  specs  and  a  mole  on  her 
nose,  told  me  to  tell  you,  for  her,  that  she 
knit  them  for  your  Christmas  present,  and  if 
you  don't  wear  them  she'll  never  forgive  you. 
And  here,"  I  continued,  "is  a  cap,  as  fuzzy 
as  a  woolly-worm,  and  as  warm  a  cap,  I 
reckon,  as  you  ever  stood  on  your  head  in; 

3 


34  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

it's  a  cheap  cap,  but  I  bought  it  with  my  own 
money,  and  money  that  I  worked  mighty  hard 
to  get,  because  I  aint  rich  ;  now,  if  I  was  rich, 
I'd  buy  you  a  plug,  but  I've  got  an  idea  that 
this  little,  old,  woolly  cap,  with  earbobs  to  it, 
and  a  snapper  to  go  under  your  chin,  don't 
you  see,  won't  be  a  bad  cap  to  knock  around 
in  such  weather  as  this.  What  do  you  say 
now !  Try  her  on  once,"  and  as  I  spoke  I 
turned  to  place  it  on  his  head. 

"Oomh-ooh!"  he  negatively  murmured 
putting  out  his  hand,  his  closed  lips  quivering 
—  the  little  frowsy  head  drooping  forward, 
and  the  ragged  shoes  shuffling  on  the  floor. 

"Come,"  said  I,  my  own  voice  growing 
curiously  changed;  "won't  you  take  these 
presents  ?  They  are  yours  ;  you  must  accept 
them,  Jamesy,  not  because  they're  worth  so 
very  much,  or  because  they're  very  fine,"  I 
continued,  bending  down  and  folding  up  the 
parcel,  "but  because,  you  know,  I  want  you 
to,  and  —  and  —  you  must  take  them;  you 
must!"  and  as  I  concluded,  I  thrust  the 
tightly -folded  parcel  beneath  his  arm,  and 
pressed  the  little  tattered  elbow  firmly  over  it. 
"  There  you  are,"  said  I.  "  Freeze  onto  it, 
and  we'll  skip  off  here  at  the  avenue.  Come." 

I  hardly  dared  to  look  behind  me  till  I  found 
myself  upon  the  street,  but  as  I  threw  an  ea- 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  35 

glance  over  my  shoulder  I  saw  the  little 
fellow  following,  not  bounding  joyfully,  but 
with  a  solemn  step,  the  little  parcel  hugged 
closely  to  his  side,  and  his  eyes  bent  soberly 
upon  the  frozen  ground. 

"And  how's  Sis  by  this  time?"  I  asked 
cheerily,  flinging  the  question  backward,  and 
walking  on  more  briskly. 

"'Bout  the  same,"  said  the  boy,  brighten 
ing  a  little,  and  skipping  into  a  livelier  pace. 

"About  the  same,  eh?  and  how's  that?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  she  can't  get  around  much  like  she 
used  to,  }ou  know;  but  she's  a-gittin'  better 
all  the  time.  She  set  up  mighty  nigh  all  day 
yisterday."  And  as  the  boy  spoke  the  eyes 
lifted  with  the  old  flash,  and  the  little  frowsy 
head  tossed  with  the  old  defiance. 

"  Why,  she's  not  down  sick?"  said  I,  a  sud 
den  ache  of  sorrow  smiting  me. 

"  \  es,"  replied  the  boy,  "  she's  been  bad  a 
long  time.  You  see,"  he  broke  in  by  way  of 
explanation,  "  she  didn't  have  no  shoes  nor 
nothin'  when  winter  come,  and  kindo  took 
cold,  you  know,  and  that  give  her  the  whoop- 
in'  cough  so's  she  couldn't  git  around  much. 
You  jist  ort  to  see  her  now !  Oh,  she's  a- 
gittin'  all  right  now,  you  can  bet !  and  she 
said  yisterday  she'd  be  plum  well  Christmas, 


36  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

and  that's  on'y  to-morry.  Guess  not ! "  and 
as  the  little  fellow  concluded  this  exultant 
speech,  he  circled  round  me,  and  then  shot 
forward  like  a  rocket. 

"  Hi !  Jamesy  !  "  I  called  after  him,  pausing 
at  a  stairway  and  stepping  in  the  door. 

The  little  fellow  joined  me  in  an  instant, 
"Want  that  shine  now?"  he  inquired  with 
panting  eagerness. 

"  Not  now,  Jamesy,"  said  I,  "  for  I'm  going 
to  be  quite  busy  for  a  while.  This  is  my  stop 
ping  place  here — the  second  door  on  the  right, 
up-stairs,  remember — and  I  work  there  when 
I'm  in  the  city,  and  I  sometimes  sleep  there, 
when  I  work  late  ;  and  now  I  want  to  ask  a 
very  special  favor  of  you,"  I  continued,  taking 
a  little  sealed  packet  from  my  vest,  "  here's  a 
little  box  that  you're  to  take  to  Sis,  with  my 
compliments — the  compliments  of  the  season, 
you  understand,  and  tell  her  I  sent  it,  with 
particular  directions  that  she  shouldn't  break 
it  open  till  Christmas  morning — not  till  Christ 
mas  morning,  understand  !  Then  you  tell  her 
that  I  would  like  very  much  to  come  and  see 
her,  and  if  she  says  all  right,  and  you  must 
give  me  a  good  '  send  off,'  and  she'll  say  all 
right  if  'Jamesy'  says  all  right,  then  come 
back  here,  say  two  hours  from  now,  or  three 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  37 

liours,  or  to-riight  anyway,  and  we'll  go  down 
and  see  Sis  together — what  do  you  sav?" 

The  boy  nodded  dubiously,  "  Honest — must 
I  do  all  that,  sure  enough?" 

"Will  you?"  said  I  ;  "that's  what  I  want 
to  know,"  and  I  pushed  back  the  little  dusky 
face  and  looked  into  the  bewildered  eyes. 

"Solid?"  he  queried  gravely. 

"  Solid,"  I  repeated,  handing  him  the  box. 
""Will  you  come?" 

"W'y,  'course  I  will,  on'y  I  was  jist  a- 
thinkin' — " 

"Just  thinking  what,"  said  I,  as  the  little  fel 
low  paused  abruptly  and  shook  the  box  sus 
piciously  at  his  ear.  "Just  thinking  what?  "  I 
repeated,  "for  I  must  go  now;  good-bye. 
Just  thinking  what?" 

"  O,  nothin',  "  said  the  boy,  backing  off  and 
staring  at  me  in  a  phase  of  wonder  akin  to 
awe.  "Nothin',  only  I  was  jist  a-thinkin' 
that  you  was  a  little  the  curiousest  rooster  I 
ever  see." 

Three  hours  later,  as  I  sat  alone,  he  came 
in  upon  me  timidly  to  say  he  hadn't  been 
home  yet,  having  "  run  acrost  the  old  man 
jist  a  bilin',  and  had  to  git  him  corralled  'fore 
lie  dropped  down  some'rs  in  the  snow ;  but 
I'm  a-gittin'  'long  bully  with  him  now,"  he 
added,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  "  cos  he's  so 


38  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

full  he'll  have  to  let  go  purty  soon.  Say 
you'll  be  here?  " 

I  nodded  silently,  and  he  was  gone. 

The  merry  peals  of  laughter  rang  up  from 
the  streets  like  mockery.  The  jingling  of 
bells,  the  clatter  and  confusion  of  the  swarm 
ing  thoroughfares  Hung  up  to  me  not  one  glad 
murmur  of  delight ;  the  faint  and  far  off  blar 
ing  of  a  dreamy  waltz,  blown  breeze-like  over 
the  drowsy  ear  of  night,  had  sounded  sweeter 
to  me  had  I  stood  amid  the  band,  with  every 
bellowing  horn  about  my  ears,  and  the  drums 
and  clashing  cymbals  howling  mad. 

I  couldn't  work,  I  couldn't  read,  I  couldn't 
rest,  I  could  only  pace  about.  I  heard  the 
clock  strike  ten,  and  strike  it  hard  ;  I  heard 
it  strike  eleven,  viciously ;  and  twelve  it 
held  out  at  arm's  length,  and  struck  it  full 
between  the  eyes,  and  let  it  drop — stone  dead. 
O !  I  saw  the  blood  ooze  from  its  ears,  and 
saw  the  white  foam  freeze  upon  its  lips.  I 
was  alone,  alone  ! 

It  was  three  o'clock  before  the  boy  re 
turned. 

"Been  a  long  while,"  he  began,  "but  I 
had  a  fearful  time  with  the  old  man,  and  he 
went  on  so  when  I  did  git  him  in  I  was  most 
afeared  to  leave  him  ;  but  he  kindo  went  U> 
sleep  at  last,  and  Molly  she  come  over  to  see 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  39 

how  Sis  was  a-gittin',  and  Sis  said  she'd  like 
to  see  you  if  you'd  come  now,  you  know, 
while  they  ain't  no  racket  goin'  on." 

"Come,  then,"  said  I,  buttoning  my  coat 
closely  at  the  throat,  "I  am  ready;  "  and  a 
moment  later  we  had  stepped  into  the  frosty 
night.  We  moved  along  in  silence,  the  little 
fellow  half  running,  half  sliding  along  the 
frozen  pavement  in  the  lead  ;  and  I  noted, 
with  a  pleasurable  thrill,  that  he  had  donned 
the  little  fuzzy  cap  and  mittens,  and  from  time 
to  time  was  flinging,  as  he  ran,  admiring 
glances  at  his  shadow  on  the  snow. 

Our  way  veered  but  a  little  from  the  very 
center  of  the  city,  but  led  mainly  along 
through  narrow  streets  and  alley-ways,  where 
the  rear  ends  of  massive  business  blocks  had 
dwindled  down  to  insignificant  proportions  to 
leer  grimly  at  us  as  we  passed  little  grated 
windows,  and  low,  scowling  doors.  Occa 
sionally  we  passed  a  clump  of  empty  boxes, 
barrels,  and  such  debris  of  merchandise  as 
had  been  crowded  pell-mell  from  some  inner 
storage  by  their  newer  and  more  dignified 
companions  ;  and  now  and  then  we  passed  an 
empty  'bus,  bulging  up  in  the  darkness  like  a 
behemoth  of  the  olden  times  ;  or,  jutting  from 
still  narrower  passages,  the  sloping  ends  of 
drays  and  carts  innumerable. 


40  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

And  along  even  as  forbidding  a  defile  as 
this  we  groped  until  we  came  upon  a  low, 
square,  brick  building  that  might  have  served 
atone  time  as  a  wash-house,  or  less  probably, 
perhaps,  a  dairy.  There  was  but  one  window 
in  the  front,  and  that  but  little  larger  than  an 
ordinary  pane  of  glass.  In  the  sides,  how 
ever,  and  higher  up,  was  a  row  of  gratings, 
evidently  designed  more  to  serve  as  ventila 
tion  than  as  openings  for  light.  There  was 
but  one  opening,  an  upright  doorway,  half 
above  ground,  half  below,  with  little  narrow 
side-steps  leading  down  to  it.  A  light  shone 
dimly  from  the  little  window,  and  as  the  boy 
motioned  me  to  pause  and  listen,  a  sound  of 
female  voices  talking  in  an  undertone  was 
audible,  mingled  with  a  sound  like  that  of 
some  one  snoring  heavily. 

"  Hear  the  old  man  a-gittin'  in  his  work?  " 
whispered  the  boy. 

I  nodded,  "  He's  asleep." 

"You  bet  he's  asleep  !  "  said  the  boy,  still 
in  a  whisper;  "  and  he'll  jist  about  stay  with 
it  that-away  fur  five  hours,  anyhow.  What 
time  you  got,  now,  Cap?" 

"A  quarter  now  till  four,"  I  replied,  peer 
ing  at  my  watch. 

"Wy,  it's  Christmas,  then!"  he  cried,  in 
muffled  rapture  of  delight,  but  abruptly  check- 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  4! 

ing  his  emotion  he  beckoned  me  a  little  far 
ther  from  the  door,  and  said  in  a  confidential 
whisper : 

"Cap,  look  here,  now,  'fore  we  go  in  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  one  thing — cos  you 
can  fix  it  and  she'll  never  drop !  Now,  here, 
I  want  to  put  up  a  job  on  Sis,  you  under 
stand  !  " 

"What?"  I  exclaimed,  starting  back  and 
•staring  at  the  boy  in  amazement.  "  Put  up  a 
job  on  Sis?  " 

"  O,  look  here,  now,  Cap,  you  aint  a  goin' 
back  on  a  feller  like  that !  "  broke  in  the  little 
fellow  in  a  mingled  tone  of  pleading  and  re 
proof;  "and  if  you  don't  help  a  feller  I'll 
have  to  wait  till  broad  daylight,  cos  we  aint 
got  no  clock." 

"  No  clock  !  "  I  repeated  with  increased  be 
wilderment. 

"  O,  come,  Cap,  what  do  you  say?  It  ain't 
no  lie,  you  know  ;  all  you  got  to  do  '11  be 
to  jest  tell  Sis  it's  Christmas,  as  though  you 
didn't  want  me  to  hear,  you  know,  and  then 
she'll  git  my  '  Christmas  Gift !  '  first,  you 
know,  and,  oh,  lordy,  won't  she  think  she's 
played  it  fine  !  "  and  as  I  slowly  comprehend 
ed  the  meaning  of  the  little  fellow's  plot  I 
nodded  my  willingness  to  assist  in  "putting 
up  the  job." 


42  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

"Now,  hold  on  a  second!  "  continued  the 
little  fellow,  in  the  wildest  glee,  darting 
through  an  opening  in  a  high  board  fence  a 
dozen  steps  away,  and  in  an  instant  reappear 
ing  with  a  bulky  parcel,  which,  as  he  neared 
me,  I  discovered  was  a  paper  flour  sack  half 
filled,  the  other  half  lapped  down  and  fastened 
with  a  large  twine  string.  "  Now  this  stuff," 
he  went  on  excitedly,  "you  must  juggle  in 
without  Sis  seein'  it — here,  shove  it  under 
your  'ben,'  here — there — that's  business! 
Now  when  you  go  in,  you're  to  set  down  with 
the  other  side  to'rds  the  bed,  you  see,  and 
when  Sis  hollers,  don't  you  know,  you  jist 
kindo  let  it  slide  down  to  the  floor  like,  and 
I'll  nail  it  slick  enough — though  I'll  p'tend, 
you  know,  it  aint  Christmas  yet,  and  look 
sold  out,  and  say  it  wasn't  fair  for  you  to  tell 
her,  and  all  that,  and  then  I'll  open  up  sud 
den  like,  and  if  you  don't  see  old  Sis  bug  out 
them  eyes  of  hern  I  don't  want  a  cent !  "  And 
as  the  gleeful  boy  concluded  this  speech,  he 
put  his  hands  over  his  mouth  and  dragged  me 
down  the  little  narrow  steps. 

"  Here's  that  feller  come  to  see  you,  Sis  !  " 
he  announced  abruptly,  opening  the  door  and 
peering  in  ;  "come  on,"  he  said,  turning  to 
me.  I  followed,  closing  the  door,  and  look 
ing  curiously  around.  A  squabby,  red-faced 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  43 

woman  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  low  bed, 
leered  upon  me,  but  with  no  salutation.  Art 
old  cook-stove,  propped  up  with  bricks, 
stood  back  against  the  wall  directly  opposite, 
and  through  the  warped  and  broken  doors 
in  front  sent  out  a  dismal  suggestion  of  the 
fire  that  burned  within.  At  the  side  of  this, 
prone  upon  the  floor,  lay  the  wretched  figure 
of  a  man,  evidently  in  the  deepest  stage  of 
drunkenness,  and  thrown  loosely  over  him  was 
an  old  tattered  piece  of  carpet  and  a  little 
checkered  shawl. 

There  was  no  furniture  to  speak  of;  one 
chair — and  that  was  serving  as  a  stand — sat 
near  the  bed,  a  high  hump-shouldered  bottle 
sitting  on  it,  a  fruit-can  full  of  water,  and  a 
little  dim  and  smoky  lamp  that  glared  sulkily. 

"  Jamesy,  can't  you  git  the  man  a  cheer  or 
somepin?  "  queried  a  thin  voice  from  the  bed, 
at  which  the  red-faced  woman  rose  reluc- 
antly  with  the  rather  sullen  words:  "He 
can  sit  here,  I  reckon,"  while  the  boy  looked 
at  me  significantly  and  took  up  a  position 
near  the  "  stand." 

"  So  this  is  Sis?"  I  said  with  reverence. 

The  little  haggard  face  I  bent  above  was- 
beautiful.  The  eyes  were  dark  and  tender — 
very  tender,  and  though  deeply  sunken  were 
most  childish  in  expression,  and  star-pure  and 


44  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

luminous.  She  reached  a  little  wasted  hand 
out  to  me,  saying  simply:  "  It  was  mighty 
good  in  you  to  give  them  things  to  jamesy, 
and  send  me  that  mo — that — that  little  box, 
you  know — on'y  I  guess  I — I  won't  need  it," 
and  as  she  spoke  a  smile  of  perfect  sweetness 
rested  on  the  face,  and  the  hand  within  my 
own  nestled  in  dove-like  peace. 

The  boy  bent  over  the  white  face  from  be 
hind  and  whispered  something  in  her  ear, 
trailing  the  little  laughing  lips  across  her  brow 
as  he  looked  up. 

"  Not  now,  Jamesy  ;  wait  awhile." 

"Ah!"  said  I,  shaking  my  head  with 
feigned  merriment.  "  Don't  you  two  go  to 
plotting  about  me  !" 

"  O,  hello,  no,  Cap?"  exclaimed  the  boy 
assuringly.  "  I  was  on'y  jist  a  tellin'  Sis  to 
ask  you  if  she  mightn't  open  that  box  now — 
honest !  Now  you  jist  ask  her  if  you  don't 
believe  me — I  won't  listen,"  and  the  little  fel 
low  gave  me  a  look  of  the  most  penetrative 
suggestiveness,  and  when  a  moment  later  the 
glad  words,  "Christmas  Gift!  Jamesy,"  rang 
out  quaveringly  in  the  thin  voice,  the  little  fel 
low  snatched  the  sack  up  in  a  paroxysm  of 
delight,  and  before  the  girl  had  time  to  lift  the 
long  dark  lashes  once  upon  his  merry  face, 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  45 

he  had  emptied  its  contents  out  tumultuously 
upon  the  bed. 

"  You  got  it  on  to  me,  Sis  !  "  cried  the  little 
fellow,  dancing  wildly  round  the  room  ;  "  got 
it  onto  me  this  time  !  but  I'm  game,  don't  you 
forgit,  and  don't  put  up  nothin'  snide  !  How'll 
them  shoes  there  ketch  you?  and  how's  this 
for  a  cloak?  is  them  enough  beads  to  suit 
you?  and  how's  this  for  a  hat — feather  an'  all? 
and  how's  this  for  a  dress — made  and  ev 
erything?  and  I'd  a  got  a  corsik  with  it  if  he'd 
a  on'y  had  any  little  enough.  You  won't  look 
fly  nor  nothin'  when  you  throw  all  that  style 
on  you  in  the  morning  !  Guess  not !"  and  the 
delighted  boy  went  off  upon  another  wild  ex 
cursion  round  the  room. 

"Lean  down  here,"  said  the  girl,  a  great 
light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  other  slender  hand 
sliding  from  beneath  the  covering.  "  Here  is 
the  box  you  sent  me,  and  I've  opened  it — it 
wasn't  right,  you  know,  but  somepin'  kindo 
said  to  open  it  'fore  morning — and — and  I 
opened  it,"  and  the  eyes  seemed  asking  my 
forgiveness,  yet  filled  with  great  bewilder 
ment.  "You  see,"  she  went  on,  the  thin 
voice  falling  in  a  fainter  tone,  "I  knowed  that 
money  in  the  box — that  is,  the  bills — I  knowed 
them  bills,  cos  one  of  'em  had  a  ink-spot  on 
it,  and  the  other  ones  had  been  pinned  with 


46  THE    BOSS    GIRL  ; 

it — they  wasn't  pinned  together  when  you 
sent  em,  but  the  holes  was  in  where  they  had 
been  pinned,  and  they  was  all  pinned  together 
when  Jamesy  had  'em  —  cos  Jamesy  used 
to  have  them  very  bills — he  didn't  think  I 
knowed,  but  onc't  when  he  was  asleep,  and 
father  was  a-goin'  through  his  clothes,  I  hap 
pened  to  find  'em  in  his  coat  'fore  he  did,  and 
I  counted  'em,  and  hid  'em  back  again,  and 
father  didn't  find  'em,  and  Jamesy  never 
knowed  it — I  never  said  nothin',  cos  somepin 
kindo  said  to  me  it  was  all  right,  and  somepin 
kmdo  said  I'd  git  all  these  things  here,  too — 
on'y  I  won't  need  'em,  nor  the  money,  nor 
nothin'.  How  did  you  get  the  money?  That's 
all !  " 

The  boy  had  by  this  time  approached  the 
bed,  and  was  gazing  curiously  upon  the  little, 
solemn  face. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Sis?"  he 
asked  in  wonderment ;  "  aint  you  glad?  " 

"  I'm  mighty  glad,  Jamesy,"  she  said,  the 
little  thin  hands  reaching  for  his  own.  "Guess 

~ 

I'm  too  glad,  cos  I  can't  do  nothin',  on'y  jist 
feel  glad  ;  and  somepin  kindo  says  that  that's 
the  gladdest  glad  in  all  the  world.  Jamesy  !" 

"  O,  shaw,  Sis  !  Why  don't  you  tell  a  fel 
ler  what's  the  matter?"  said  the  boy  uneasily. 

The  white  hands  linked  more  closely  with 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  47 

the  brown,  and  the  pure  face  lifted  to  the 
grimy  one  till  they  were  blent  together  in  a 
kiss. 

"  Be  good  to  father,  for  you  know  he  used 
to  be  so  good  to  us." 

"O  Sis!  Sis!" 

"Mollie!" 

The  squabby,  red-faced  woman  threw  her 
self  upon  her  knees,  and  kissed  the  thin  hands 
wildly  and  with  sobs. 

"  Mollie,  somepin  kindo  says  that  you  must 
dress  me  in  the  morning — but  I  won't  need  the 
hat,  and  you  must  take  it  home  for  Nannie — 
don't — don't  cry  so  loud,  you'll  wake  father." 

I  bent  my  head  down  above  the  frowsy  one 
and  moaned — moaned. 

"And  you,  sir,"  went  on  the  failing  voice, 
reaching  for  my  hand,  "  you — you  must  take 
this  money  back — you  must  take  it  back,  for 
I  don't  need  it.  You  must  take  it  back  and 
— and — give  it — give  it  to  the  poor."  And 
even  with  the  utterance  upon  the  gracious  lips 
the  glad  soul  leaped  and  fluttered  through  the 
open  gates. 


AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC. 


BELLS  JANGLED 

1  lie  low-coiled  in  a  nest  of  dreams; 

The  lamp  gleams  dim  i'  the  odorous  gloom, 
And  the  stars  at  the  casement  leak  long  gleams 

Of  misty  light  through  the  haunted  room 
Where  I  lie  low-coiled  in  dreams. 

The  night-winds  ooze  o'er  my  dusk-drowned  fact 
In  a  dewy  flood  that  ebbs  and  flows, 

Washing  a  surf  of  dim  white  lace 

Under  my  throat  and  the  dark  red  rose 

In  the  shade  of  my  dusk-drowned  face. 

There's  a  silken  strand  of  some  strange  eount 

Slipping  out  of  a  skein  of  song: 
Eeriely  as  a  call  unwound 

From  a  fairy-bugle,  it  slides  along 
In  a  silken  strand  of  sound. 

There's  the  tinkling  drip  of  a  faint  guitar; 

There's  a  gurgling  flute,  and  a  blaring  horn 
Blowing  bubbles  of  tune  afar 

O'er  the  misty  heights  of  the  hills  of  morn, 
To  the  drip  of  a  faint  guitar. 

And  I  dream  that  I  neither  sleep  nor  wake — • 

Careless  am  I  if  I  wake  or  sleep, 
For  my  soul  floats  out  on  the  waves  that  breat) 

In  crests  of  song  on  the  shoreless  deep 
Where  I  neither  sleep  nor  wake. 

(50) 


AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC. 

"    A    N  'adjustable  lunatic?'" 

/~\  "  Yes,  sir,  an  adjustable  lunatic — you 
may  know  I  don't  make  a  business  of  insanity, 
or  I  wouldn't  be  running  at  large  here  on  the 
streets  of  the  city." 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  St.  Patrick's 
Day.  I  had  been  drifting  aimlessly  around 
the  city  for  hours,  tossed  about  by  the  restless 
tide  of  humanity  that  ebbed  and  flowed  in  true 
sea-fashion  at  the  Washington  and  Illinois 
street  crossing.  The  few  friends  I  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  fall  in  with  prior  to  the 
parade  I  had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  lose 
in  the  flurry  and  excitement  attending  that 
event;  and,  brought  to  a  sudden  anchorage 
at  the  Bates  House  landing,  I  found  myself  at 
the  mercy  of  a  boundless  throng  that  held  not 
one  familiar  face.  It  was  a  literal  jam  at  that 
juncture,  and  anxious  and  impatient  as  I  was 
to  break  away,  I  was  forced  into  a  bondage 
which,  though  not  exactly  agreeable,  was  at 
least  the  source  of  an  experience  that  will  lin- 

(50 


52  AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

ger  in  my  memory  fresh  and  clear  when  every 
other  feature  of  the  day  shall  have  faded. 

I  had  been  crowded  into  a  position  on  a  step 
of  the  stairway  that  gave  me  a  lean  upon  the 
balustrade,  and  placed  me  head  and  shoulders 
above  the  crowd ;  and  although  I  compre 
hended  the  helplessness  of  my  position,  I  was, 
in  a  manner,  thankful  for  the  opportunity  il 
afforded  me  to  study  the  unsuspecting  subjects 
just  below.  As  my  hungry  eyes  went  forag 
ing  about  from  face  to  face  they  fell  upon  the 
features  of  an  individual  so  singularly  ab 
stracted  in  appearance  and  so  apparently 
oblivious  to  his  surroundings,  that  I  mentally 
congratulated  him  upon  his  enviable  disposi 
tion. 

He  was  a  slender  man,  of  thirty  years,  per 
haps  ;  not  tall,  but  something  over  medium 
height;  he  had  dark  hair  and  eyes,  with  a 
complexion  much  too  fair  to  correspond  ;  was 
not  richly  dressed,  but  neatly,  and  in  good 
taste. 

Instinctively  I  wondered  who  and  what  he 
was ;  and  my  speculative  fancy  went  to  work 
and  made  a  lawyer  of  him — then  a  minister — 
an  artist — a  musician — an  actor — and  a  danc 
ing-master.  Suddenly  I  found  my  stare  re 
turned  with  equal  fervor,  and  tried  to  look 
away,  but  something  held  me.  He  was  el- 


AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC.  53 

bowing  his  way  to  where  I  stood,  and  smiling 
as  he  came. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  he  said,  when,  after 
an  almost  superhuman  effort,  he  had  gained 
my  side,  to  the  discomfiture  of  a  brace  of 
mangy  little  bootblacks  that  occupied  the  step 
below  —  "I  don't  know  you  personally,  but 
you  look  bored.  I'm  troubled  with  the  same 
disease  and  want  company — as  the  poet  of  the 
Sierras  wails,  '  How  all  alone  a  man  may  be 
in  crowds  ! ' '  Something  in  the  utterance 
made  me  offer  him  my  hand. 

He  grasped  it  warmly.  "  It's  curious,"  he 
rsaid,  "how  friends  are  made,  and  where  true 
fellowship  begins.  Now  we've  known  each 
other  all  our  lives  and  never  met  before. 
What  d'ye  say?" 

I  smiled  approval  at  the  odd  assertion. 

"  But  tell  me,"  he  continued  "  what  conclu 
sion  you  have  arrived  at  in  your  study  of  me  ; 
come,  now,  be  frank — what  do  you  make  of 
me?" 

Although  I  found  myself  considerably  star 
tled,  I  feigned  composure  and  acknowledged 
that  I  had  been  speculating  as  to  who  and 
what  he  was,  but  found  myself  unable  to  de 
fine  a  special  character. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "No  one  ever 
reads  my  character — no  one  ever  will.  Why, 


54  AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC. 

I've  had  phrenologists  groping  around  among 
my  bumps  by  the  hour  to  no  purpose,  and  phys 
iognomists  driving  themselves  cross-eyed,  but 
they  never  found  it,  and  they  never  will.  The 
very  things  of  which  I  am  capable  they  inva 
riably  place  beyond  my  capacity ;  and,  with 
like  sageness,  the  very  things  I  can't  do  they 
declare  me  to  be  a  master  hand  at.  But  I  like 
to  worry  them  ;  it's  fun  for  me.  Why,  old 
Fowler  himself,  here  the  other  night,  thumbed 
my  head  as  mellow  as  a  May-apple,  and  never 
came  within  a  mile  of  it !  Some  characters 
are  readable  enough,  I'm  willing  to  admit. 
Your  face,  for  instance,  is  a  bulletin-board  to 
me,  but  you  can't  read  mine,  for  I'm  neither 
a  doctor,  lawyer,  artist,  actor,  musician,  nor 
anything  else  you  may  have  in  your  mind. 
You  might  guess  your  way  all  through  the 
dictionary  and  then  not  get  it.  It's  simply  an 
impossibility,  that's  all." 

I  laughed  uneasily,  for  although  amused  at 
the  quaint  humor  of  his  language,  a  nervous 
fluttering  of  the  eyes  and  a  spasmodic  twitch 
ing  of  the  corners  of  his  mouth  made  me  think 
his  manner  merely  an  affectation.  But  I  was 
interested,  and  as  his  conversation  seemed  to 
invite  the  interrogation,  I  flatly  asked  him  to 
indulge  my  curiosity  and  tell  me  what  he  was. 

"  Wait  till  the  crowd  thins,  and  maybe  I 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC.  55 

will.  In  the  meantime  here's  a  cigar  and 
here's  a  light — as  Mr.  Quilp  playfully  remarks 
to  Tom  Scott — 'Smoke  away,  you  dog  you  !'  " 

"  Well,  you're  a  character,"  said  I,  dubi 
ously. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  you  can't  tell  what 
kind,  and  I  can  tell  you  the  very  trade  you 
work  at." 

I  smiled  incredulously. 

"Now  don't  look  lofty  and  assume  a  pro 
fessional  air,  for  you're  only  a  mechanic,  and 
a  sign-painter  at  that." 

Although  he  spoke  with  little  courtesy  of 
address,  there  was  a  subtle  something  in  his 
eye  that  drew  me  magnet-like  and  held  me. 
I  was  silent. 

"Want  to  know  how  I  became  aware  of 
that  fact?"  he  went  on,  with  a  quick,  sharp 
glance  at  my  bewildered  face.  "There's 
nothing  wonderful  about  my  knowing  that ; 
I've  had  my  eye  on  you  for  two  hours,  and 
you  stare  at  every  sign-board  you  pass,  worse 
than  a  country-jake  ;  and  once  or  twice  I  saw 
you  stop  and  'study  carefully  some  fresh  de 
sign,  or  some  new  style  of  letter.  You're  a 
stranger  here  in  the  city,  too.  Want  to  know 
how  I  can  tell?  Because  you  walk  like  you 
were  actually  going  some  place ;  but  I  notice 
that  you  never  get  there,  for  continually  cross- 


56  AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC. 

ing  and  recrossing  streets,  and  back-tracking 
past  show-windows,  and  congratulating  your 
self,  doubtless,  upon  the  thorough  business  air 
of  your  reflection  in  the  plate  glass.  Come, 
we  can  get  through  now,  let's  walk." 

I  followed  him  unhesitatingly.  To  say  that 
I  was  simply  curious  would  be  too  mild  ;  I 
was  fascinated,  and  to  that  degree  I  actually 
fastened  on  his  arm,  and  clung  there  till  we 
had  quite  escaped  the  crowd.  "I  like  you, 
some  way,"  he  said,  "but  you're  too  impul 
sive  ;  you  let  your  fancy  get  away  with  your 
better  judgment.  Now,  you  don't  know  me, 
and  I'm  even  pondering  whether  to  frankly 
unbosom  to  you,  or  give  you  the  slip  ;  and  I'll 
not  leave  the  proposition  to  you  to  decide,  for 
I  know  you'd  say  'unbosom;  so  I'll  think 
about  it  quietly  for  awhile  yet  and  give  you 
an  unbiased  verdict." 

We  walked  on  in  silence  for  the  distance, 
perhaps,  of  half  a  dozen  blocks,  turning  and 
angling  about  till  we  came  upon  an  open  stair 
way  in  an  old  unpainted  brick  building,  where 
my  strange  companion  seemed  to  pause  me 
chanically. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  I  asked. 

"  I  stay  here,"  he  replied,  "  for  I  don't  call 
it  living  to  be  fastened  up  in  this  old  sepulcher. 
I  like  it  well  enough  at  night,  for  then  I  feast 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC.  57 

and  fatten  on  the  gloom  and  glower  that  in 
fests  it ;  but  in  the  normal  atmosphere  of  day 
my  own  room  looks  repellant,  and  I  only  visit 
it,  as  now,  out  of  sheer  desperation." 

If  I  had  at  first  been  mystified  with  this  cu 
rious  being,  I  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  be 
wildered.  The  more  I  studied  him  the  more 
at  a  loss  I  was  to  fathom  him ;  and  as  I  stood 
staring  blankly  in  his  face,  he  exclaimed  al 
most  derisively :  "You  give  it  up,  don'tyou?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "  that's  a  good  sign, 
and  I've  concluded  to  '  unbosom  ' ;  I'm  an  ad 
justable  lunatic." 

"An  'adjustable  lunatic!"  I  repeated, 
blankly.  And  after  the  remarkable  propo 
sition  that  ushers  in  the  story,  he  continued 
smilingly  : 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  now,  for  I'm  glad  to 
assure  you  of  the  fact  that  I'm  as  harmless  as 
a  baby-butterfly.  Nobody  knows  I'm  crazy, 
nobody  ever  dreams  of  such  a  thing — and 
why? — Because  the  faculty  is  adjustable,  don't 
you  see,  and  self-controlling.  I  never  allow 
it  to  interfere  with  business  matters,  and  only 
let  it  on  at  leisure  intervals  for  the  amusement 
it  affords  me  in  the  pleasurable  break  it  makes 
in  the  monotony  of  a  matter-of-fact  existence. 
I'm  off  duty  to-day — in  fact,  I've  been  oft'  duty 


58  AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

for  a  week ;  or,  to  be  franker  still,  I  lost  my 
situation  ten  days  ago,  and  I've  been  humor 
ing  this  propensity  in  the  meanwhile ;  and 
now,  if  you're  inclined  to  go  up  to  my  room 
with  me — the  windows  are  both  raised,  you 
see,  and  you  can  call  for  help  should  occasion 
require  ;  people  are  constantly  passing — if  you 
feel  inclined,  I  say,  to  go  up  with  me,  I'll  do 
my  best  to  entertain  you.  I  like  you,  as  I  said 
before,  and  you  can  trust  me,  I  assure  you. 
Come." 

If  I  were  to  attempt  a  description  of  the 
feelings  that  possessed  me  as  I  followed  my 
strange  acquaintance  up  the  stairway,  I  should 
fail  as  utterly  as  one  who  would  attempt  to 
portray  the  experience  of  lying  in  a  nine- 
days'  trance,  so  I  leave  the  reader's  fancy  to 
befriend  me,  and  hasten  on  to  more  tangible 
matters. 

We  paused  at  the  first  landing,  my  compan 
ion  unlocking  a  door  on  the  right,  and  hand 
ing  me  the  key  with  the  remark  :  "  You  may 
feel  safer  with  it.  And  don't  be  frightened," 
he  continued,  "  when  I  open  the  door,  for  it 
always  whines  like  somebody  had  stepped  on 
its  knob,"  and  I  laughed  at  the  odd  figure  as 
he  threw  the  door  open  and  motioned  me  to 
enter. 
.  It  was  a  queer  apartment,  filled  with  a  jum- 


AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC.  59 

V*  <*u  tiray  of  old  chairs  and  stands  ;  old  trunks, 
a  loin  ge,  and  a  stack  of  odd-shaped  packages. 
A  fnn  ;sy  carpet  thrown  over  the  floor  like  a 
blankev,  and  a  candle-box  spittoon  with  a 
broken  lamp-chimney  in  it.  A  little  swinging 
shelf  of  dusty  books,  with  a  railroad  map 
pasted  just  above  it.  A  narrow  table  with  a 
telegraph  instrument  attached,  and  wires  like 
ivy-vines  running  all  about  the  walls ;  and 
scattered  around  the  instrument  was  an  end 
less  array  of  zinc  and  copper  scraps,  and  bits 
of  brass,  spiral  springs,  and  queer-shaped  lit 
tle  tools.  A  flute  propped  up  one  window, 
and  near  it,  on  another  stand,  a  cornet  and 
an  old  guitar  ;  a  pencil  sketch  half  finished, 
and  a  stuffed  glove  with  a  pencil  in  its  fingers 
lying  on  it ;  a  spirit-lamp,  a  lump  of  beeswax, 
and  a  hundred  other  odds  and  ends,  betoken 
ing  the  presence  of  some  mechanical,  musi 
cal,  scientific  genius. 

"  It's  a  bachelor's  room,"  said  the  host, 
noting  my  inquisitive  air.  "  It's  a  bachelor's 
room,  so  you'll  expect  no  apologies.  Sit  down 
when  you're  through  with  the  industrial,  and 
turn  your  attention  to  the  art  department." 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  hand,  and  my 
eyes  fell  upon  a  painted  face  of  such  ineffable 
sweetness  and  beauty  I  was  fairly  dazed.  It 
was  not  an  earthly  form,  at  least  in  coloring,  for 


6O  AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

the  features  seemed  to  glow  with  beatific  light. 
The  eyes  were  large,  dark  and  dewy,  thrown 
upward  with  a  longing  look,  and  filled  with 
such  intensity  of  tenderness  one  could  but  sigh 
to  see  them.  The  hair,  swept  negligently 
back,  fell  down  the  gleaming  shoulders  like  a 
silken  robe,  and  nestled  in  its  glossy  waves 
the  ears  peeped  shyly  out  like  lily-blooms. 
The  lips  were  parted  with  an  utterance  that 
one  could  almost  hear,  and  weep  because  the 
blessed  voice  was  mute.  The  hands  were 
folded  on  a  crumpled  letter  and  pressed  close 
against  the  heart,  and  a  curl  of  golden  hair 
was  coiled  around  the  fingers. 

"Is  it  a  creation  of  the  fancy?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  answered  with  a  dreamy 
drawl.  "I  call  it  fancy,  when  in  a  normal 
state ;  but  now,"  he  continued,  in  a  fainter 
tone,  "  I  will  designate  it  as  a  portrait."  And 
oh,  so  sad,  so  hopeless  and  despairing  was  the 
utterance,  it  seemed  to  well  up  from  the  foun 
tain  of  his  heart  like  a  spray  of  purest  sorrow. 

"Who  painted  it?"  I  asked. 

"  'Who  painted  it?'  "  he  repeated,  drowsily 
— " 'who  painted  it?'  Oh,  no  ;  I  mustn't  tell 
you  that ;  for  if  I  answered  you  with  '  Raph 
ael,'  you'd  say,  'Ah,  no!  the  paint's  too 
fresh  for  that,  and  he's  been  dead  for  ages. 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC.  6l 

'  Who  painted  it? '  No,  no,  I  mustn't  tell  you 
that ! " 

"  But  are  you  not  an  artist?  I  see  an  easel 
in  the  corner  there,  and  here's  a  maulstick 
lying  on  the  mantel." 

"  I  an  artist?  Why,  man,  what  ails  you?  I 
told  you  not  ten  minutes  since  that  I  was  art 
adjustable  lunatic;  and  don't  you  seel  am? 
You  can't  mislead  me  nor  throw  me  off  my 
guard.  When  it  comes  to  reason  or  solid 
logic,  don't  you  find  me  there?  And  here 
again,  to  show  the  clearness  of  my  judgment, 
I  remove  the  cause  of  our  little  dissension,  and 
our  friendly  equanimity  is  restored — "  and  he 
turned  the  picture  to  the  wall. 

I  could  but  smile  at  the  gravity  and  adroit 
ness  of  his  language  and  demeanor. 

"There,"  said  he,  smiling  in  return  ;  "your 
face  is  brighter  than  the  day  outside ;  let's 
change  the  topic.  Do  you  like  music?" 

"Passionately,"  I  responded.  "Will  you 
play?" 

"No;  I  will  sing." 

He  took  the  guitar  from  the  table,  and,  with 
a  prelude  wilder  than  the  "  Witches'  Dance," 
he  sang  a  song  he  called  "The  Dream  of 
Death,"  a  grievously  sad  song,  so  full  of  minor 
tones  and  wailing  words,  the  burden  of  it  still 
lingers  in  my  ears  : 


62  AN  ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

"0  gentle  death,  bow  down  and  sip 
The  soul  that  lingers  on  my  lip ; 
O  gentle  death,  bow  down  and  keep 
Eternal  vigil  o'er  my  sleep; 
For  I  am  weary  and  would  rest 
Forever  on  your  loving  breast." 

His  voice,  as  plaintive  as  a  dove's,  went 
trailing  through  the  rondel  like  weariness 
itself;  and  when  at  last  it  died  away  in  one 
long  quaver  of  ecstatic  melody,  though  I  felt 
within  my  heart  an  echoing  of  grief 

"Too  sweetly  sad  to  name  as  pain," 

I  broke  the  silence  following  to  remind  him  of 
his  having  told  me  he  was  not  a  musician. 

"Only  a  novice,"  he  responded.  "One 
may  twang  a  lute  and  yet  not  be  a  trouba 
dour.  By  the  way,"  he  broke  off  abruptly, 
41  is  that  expression  original  with  me,  or  have 
I  picked  it  up  in  some  old  book  of  rhyme — 
Oh,  yes  !  How  do  you  like  poetry?  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  and 
without  awaiting  an  answer  to  his  query  went 
diving  about  in  a  huge  waste-basket  standing 
near  the  table. 

*'  It's  a  thing  I  dislike  to  acknowledge,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  The 
fact  is,  I'm  a  follower  of  Wegg  and  some 
times  '  drop  into  poetry — as  a  friend,'  you  un- 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC.  63 

derstand  ;  and  if  you'll  '  lend  me  your  ears,' 
I'll  give  you  a  specimen  of  my  versification." 
He  had  drawn  up  a  roll  of  paper  from  the 
debris  of  the  basket,  and  unrolling  it  with  a 
flourish,  and  a  mock-heroic  air  of  inspiration, 
he  read  as  follows  : 

"A  fantasy  that  carne  to  me 

As  wild  and  wantonly  designed 

As  ever  any  dream  might  be 

Unraveled  from  a  madman's  mind, — 

A  tangle-work  of  tissue,  wrought 
By  cunning  of  the  spider-brain, 
And  woven,  in  an  hour  of  pain, 

To  trap  the  giddy  flies  of  thought ." 

He  paused,  and  with  a  look  of  almost  wild 
entreaty  he  pleaded:  "You  understand  it, 
don't  you?" 

I  nodded  hesitatingly. 

"Why,  certainly  you  do.  The  meaning's 
the  plainest  thing  in  it.  What's  your  idea  of 
its  meaning?  tell  me!  Why  don't  you  tell 
me!" 

"Read  it  again  that  I  may  note  it  carefully." 

He  repeated  it. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  it  appears  to  me  to  be  the 
introduction  to  a  poem  written  under  peculiar 
circumstances,  and  containing,  perhaps,  some 
strange  ideas  that  the  author  would  excuse  for 


64  AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC. 

the  reason  of  their  coming  in  the  way  they 
did." 

"Right!"  he  exclaimed  joyously;  "and 
now  if  you'll  give  me  your  most  critical  atten 
tion,  and  promise  not  to  interrupt,  I'll  read 
the  poem  entire," 

"  Go  on,"  I  said,  for  I  was  far  more  eager 
to  listen  than  I  would  have  him  know. 

"And  will  you  excuse  any  little  wildness  of 
gesture  or  expression  that  I  may  see  fit  to  in 
troduce  in  the  rendition?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  I,  "certainly;  go  on!" 

"And  you  won't  interrupt  or  get  excited? 
Light  another  cigar ;  and  here's  a  chair  to 
throw  your  feet  across.  Now,  unbutton  your 
coat  and  lean  back.  Are  you  thoroughly  com 
fortable?" 

"Thoroughly,"  said  I,  impatiently. — "A 
thousand  thoroughlies." 

"All  right,"  he  said  ;  "  I'm  glad  to  hear 
you  say  it ;  but  before  I  proceed  I  desire  to 
call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  poem  is 
a  literary  orphan — a  foundling,  you  under 
stand?" 

"  I  understand  ;  go  on." 

And  with  a  manner  all  too  wild  to  be  de 
scribed,  he  read,  or  rather  recited,  the  follow 
ing  monstrosity  of  rhyme : 


AN  ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC.  65 

"I  stood  beneath  a  summer  moon 

All  swollen  to  uncanny  girth, 
And  hanging,  like  the  sun  at  noon, 

Above  the  center  of  the  earth  ; 

But  with  a  sad  and  sallow  light, 

As  it  had  sickened  of  the  night, 
And  fallen  in  a  pallid  ^rotm.. 
Around  me  I  co'^o  bear  the  rush 

Of  sul^n  winds,  and  feel  the  whirr 
Oi  unseen  wings  apast  me  brush 

Like  phantoms  round  a  sepulcher; 
And,  like  a  carpeting  of  plush, 

A  lawn  unrolled  beneath  my  feet, 

Bespangled  o'er  with  flowers  as  sweet 

To  look  upon  as  those  that  nod 

Within  the  garden-fields  of  God, 

But  odorless  as  those  that  blow 

In  ashes  in  the  shades  below. 

"And  on  my  hearing  fell  a  storm 
Of  gusty  music,  sadder  yet 
Than  every  whimper  of  regret 

That  sobbing  utterance  could  form  ; 

And  patched  with  scraps  of  sound  that  seemed 
Torn  out  of  tunes  that  demons  dreamed, 
And  pitched  to  such  a  piercing  key, 
It  stabbed  the  ear  with  agony  ; 
And  when  at  last  it  lulled  and  died, 
I  stood  aghast  and  terrified. 

I  shuddered  and  I  shut  my  eyes, 
And  still  could  see,  and  feel  aware 
Some  mystic  presence  waited  there ; 

And  staring,  with  a  dazed  surprise, 
I  saw  a  creature  so  divine 
That  never  subtle  thought  of  mine 


66  AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

May  reproduce  to  inner  sight 
So  fair  a  vision  of  delight. 

"A  syllable  of  dew  that  drips 
From  out  a  lily's  laughing  lips 
Could  not  be  sweeter  than  the  word 
I  listened  lo,  yet  never  heard. 
For,  oh,  the  woman  hiding  there 
"Withiu  the  shadows  of  her  hair, 
Spake  to  me  in  an  undertone 
So  delicate,  my  soul  alone 
But  understood  it  as  a  moan 
Of  some  weak  melody  of  wind 
A  heavenward  breeze  had  left  behind. 

"  A  tracery  of  trees,  grotesque 

Against  the  sky,  behind  her  seen, 

Like  shapeless  shapes  of  arabesque 
Wrought  in  an  oriental  screen  ; 

And  tall,  austere  and  statuesque 

She  loomed  before  it — e'en  as  though 
The  spirit-hand  of  Angelo 
Had  chiseled  her  to  life  complete, 
With  chips  of  moonshine  round  her  feet, 

And  I  grew  jealous  of  the  dusk 
To  see  it  softly  touch  her  face, 
As  lover-like  with  fond  embrace, 

It  folded  round  her  like  a  husk: 

Hut  when  the  glitter  of  her  hand, 
Like  wasted  glory  beckoned  me, 
My  eyes  grew  blurred  and  dull  and  dim — 
My  vision  failed — I  could  not  see — 

I  could  not  stir — I  could  but  stand, 
Till,  quivering  in  every  limb, 
I  flung  me  prone,  as  though  to  swim 
The  tide  of  grass  who^e  waves  of  green 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC.  67 

Went  rolling  ocean-wide  between 

My  helpless  shipwrecked  heart  and  her 

Who  claimed  me  for  a  worshiper. 

"  And  writhing  thus  in  my  despair, 
I  heard  a  weird,  unearthly  sound, 
That  seemed  to  lift  me  from  the  ground, 

And  hold  me  floating  in  the  air. 

I  looked,  and  lo  I  I  saw  her  bow 
Above  a  harp  within  her  hands ; 

A  crown  of  blossoms  bound  her  brow, 
And  on  her  harp  were  twisted  strands 

-Of  silken  starlight,  rippling  o'er 

With  music  never  heard  before 

By  mortal  ears,  and  at  the  strain 

1  felt  my  Spirit  snap  its  chain 

And  break  away,  and  I  could  see 

It  as  it  turned  and  fled  from  me 

To  greet  its  mistress,  where  she  smiled 

To  see  the  phantom  dancing  wild 

And  wizard-like  before  the  spell 

Her  mystic  fingers  knew  so  well." 

I  sat  throughout  it  all  as  though  under  the 
strange  influence  of  an  Eastern  drug.  My 
fancy  was  so  wrought  upon  I  only  saw  the 
reader  mistily,  and  clothed,  as  it  were,  in  a 
bedragoned  costume  of  the  Orient.  My  mind 
seemed  idle — steeped  in  drowse  and  languor, 
and  yet  peopled  with  a  thousand  shadowy 
fancies  that  came  trooping  from  chaotic  hid 
ing-places,  and  mingling  in  a  revelry  of  such 
riotous  extravagance  it  seemed  a  holiday  of 
elfish  thought. 


68  AN  ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC. 

I  shook  my  head,  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  arose 
bewildered,  and  sat  down  again  ;  arose  again 
and  walked  across  the  room,  my  strange  com 
panion  following  every  motion  with  an  inten 
sity  of  gaze  almost  mesmeric. 

"  You  fail  to  comprehend  it?  "  he  queried. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  You  can  almost  grasp  it,  can't  you?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  But  not  quite?  " 

"Not  quite." 

"  Does  it  worry  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Think  it  will  cling  to  you,  and  fret  you, 
vex  you,  haunt  you?  " 

"I  know  it  will." 

"  Think  you'll  ever  fully  comprehend  it?" 

"  I  can't  say,"  I  replied,  thoughtfully. 
"Perhaps  I  may  in  time.  Will  you  allow  me 
to  copy  it?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  with  it?" 

"  I  want  to  study  it,"  I  replied. 

"And  you're  sure  you  don't  understand  itr 
and  it  worries  you,  and  frets  you,  and  vexes 
you,  and  haunts  you?  Good!  I'll  read  you 
the  final  clause  now ;  that  may  throw  a  light 
of  some  kind  on  it,"  and,  opening  the  scroll 
again,  he  read : 


AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC.  69 

*  What  is  it  ?    Who  will  rightly  guess 

If  it  be  ought  but  nothingness 

That  dribbles  from  a  wayward  pen 

To  spatter  in  the  eyes  of  men? 

What  matter  !     I  will  call  it  mine, 
And  I  will  take  the  changeling  home, 

And  bathe  its  face  with  morning-shine, 
And  comb  it  with  a  golden  comb 
Till  every  tangled  tress  of  rhyme 
Will  fairer  be  than  summer-time; 

And  I  will  nurse  it  on  my  knee, 
And  dandle  it  beyond  the  clasp 
Of  hands  that  grip  and  hands  that  grasp, 

Through  life  and  all  eternity!" 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  it?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  savageness  that  startled  me. 

"  I  am  more  at  sea  than  ever,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  a  prosperous  voyage! 
Here's  the  poem;  I've  another  copy.  'Read 
and  reflect,'  as  the  railroad  poster  says,  but 
don't  you  publish  it — at  least  while  I'm  alive, 
for  I've  no  thirst  for  literary  fame — I  only 
write  for  home  use  ;  but- you're  a  good  fellow, 
and  I  like  you  for  all  your  weak  points,  and  I 
trust  the  confidence  I  repose  will  not  be  dis 
regarded.  Come ! " 

He  had  opened  the  door  and  was  holding 
out  his  hand  for  the  key. 

I  gave  it  to  him  and  followed  out  mechan 
ically.  He  left  the  door  ajar  and  followed  to 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 


7<D  AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC. 

"And  now  if  you'll  pardon  me,"  he  said, 
"  I'll  say  good-bye  to  you  here  ;  I've  some 
packing  to  do  and  ought  to  be  at  it." 

"  Why,  you're  not  going  to  leave  the  city ?  'r 
I  asked. 

"  Well,  no,  not  to-day  ;  but  the  jig's  up  with 
me  here,  and  it's  only  a  question  of  time — I 
can't  hold  out  much  longer — as  our  rural 
friend  remarks,  '  Money  matters  is  mighty 
sceerce ; '  and  if  I  don't  pull  out  shortly  I'll 
have  to  '  fold  my  tent  like  the  Bedouin  and  si 
lently  plagiarize  away ! ' 

"  If  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  to  you — "  I 
began,  but  he  checked  me  abruptly  with,  "  Ohr 
no,  I  don't  require  it,  I  assure  you ;  I've  two- 
dollars  to  your  one,  doubtless.  Thank  you 
just  the  same,  and  good-bye.  Here's  my  card  ; 
it's  not  my  name,  however,  but  it'll  answer;- 
I'll  not  see  you  again,  though  you  should  live 
to  be  as  bald  as  a  brickyard,  for,  my  dear 
young  friend,  I'm  going  away.  Good-bye, 
and  may  all  good  things  overtake  you  !  " 

He  gripped  my  hand  like  a  vise,  and  turn 
ing  quickly,  went  skipping  up  the  stairway 
two  steps  at  a  time. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  I  called  to  him  sorrowfully  ; 
then  turned  reluctantly  away,  examining  the 
card  he  had  given  me,  which,  to  my  astonish 
ment,  was  not  his  card  at  all,  but  a  railroad 


AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC.  ^1 

ticket  entitling  the  bearer  to  a  ride  from  Dan 
ville,  Illinois,  to  York,  Pennsylvania ;  this 
fact  I  remember  quite  distinctly,  as  I  read  it 
over  and  over,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  im 
pression  that  this  was  but  another  instance  of 
his  eccentricity,  or  perhaps  a  trick  by  which  I 
might  be  victimized  in  some  undreamed-of 
way.  But  upon  second  thought  I  concluded 
it  to  be  simply  a  mistake,  and  so  turned  back 
and  called  him  to  the  window  above  and  ex 
plained. 

He  came  down  and  begged  my  pardon  for 
the  trouble  he  had  given  me,  took  the  ticket, 
thanked  me,  and  said  good-bye  again. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "you  haven't  given  me  your 
real  card  in  exchange." 

"  Oh,  no  matter  !  "  he  said  smilingly.  "Call 
me  Smith,  Jones  or  Robinson,  it's  all  the 
same  ;  good-bye,  and  don't  forget  your  old 
friend  and  well-wisher,  the  Adjustable  Luna 
tic,"  and  he  vanished  from  my  sight  forever. 

The  remainder  of  the  day  and  half  of  the 
night  I  spent  in  studious  contemplation  of  the 
curious  composition,  but  without  arriving  at 
any  tangible  conclusion.  I  am  still  engaged 
with  my  investigation.  Sometimes  the  mean 
ing  seems  almost  within  my  mental  grasp,  but 
balancing,  adjusting  and  comparing  its  many 
curious  bearings,  I  find  my  judgment  persist- 


72  AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC. 

ently  at  fault.  It  has  puzzled  and  bewildered 
me  for  weeks.  No  line  of  it  but  canters  through 
my  brain  like  a  fractious  nightmare  ;  no  syl 
lable  but  fastens  on  my  fancy  like  a  leech,  and 
sucks  away  the  life-blood  of  my  every  thought. 
I  am  troubled,  worried,  fretted,  vexed  and 
haunted  ;  and  I  write  this  now  in  the  earnest 
hope  that  wiser  minds  may  have  an  opportu 
nity  of  making  it  a  subject  of  investigation, 
and  because  one  week  ago  to-day  my  eyes 
fell  upon  the  following  special  telegram  to 
the  Indianapolis  Journal : 

"PERU,  IXD.,  April  12. — An  unknown  man  committed 
suicide  in  the  eastward-bound  train  on  the  W abash  road, 
just  below  Waverly,  at  about  11  o'clock  this  morning.  He 
had  in  his  possession,  besides  the  revolver  with  which  he 
shot  himself,  a  ticket  from  Danville,  Illinois,  to  York, 
Pennsylvania,  a  gold  watch,  $19  in  money,  a  small  valise, 
and  some  letters  and  other  papers  which  indicated  his  nam« 
to  be  George  S.  Cloning. 

"  He  was  shot  twice  in  the  region  of  the  heart,  and  his  re 
volver  showed  that  between  the  first  and  last  shots  two 
cartridges  missed  fire." 


TOD. 


LITTLE  TOMMY  SMITH. 

Dimple-cheeked  and  rosy-lipped, 
With  his  cap-rim  backward  tipped^ 
Still  in  fancy  I  can  see 
Little  Tommy  smile  on  me — 

Little  Tommy  Smith. 

Liitle  unsung  Tommy  Smith — 
Scarce  a  name  to  rhyme  it  with; 
Yet  most  tenderly  to  me 
Something  sings  unceasingly — 

Little  Tommy  Smith, 

On  the  verge  of  some  far  land 
Still  forever  does  he  stand, 
With  his  cap-rim  rakishly 
Tilted;  so  he  smiles  on  me — 

Little  Tommy  Smith. 

Oh,  my  jaunty  statuette 
Of  first  love,  I  see  you  yet; 
Though  you  smile  so  mistily, 
It  is  but  through  tears  I  see, 

Little  Tommy  Smith. 

But  with  croivn  tipped  back  behind^ 
And  the  glad  hand  of  the  wind 
Smoothing  back  your  hair,  I  see 
Heaven's  best  angel  smile  on  me— 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 

(74) 


TOD. 

STODDARD  Anderson  was  the  boy's 
name,  though  had  you  made  inquiry  for 
Stoddard  Anderson  of  any  boy  of  the  town  in 
which  he  lived — and  I  myself  lived  there,  a 
handy  boy  in  the  dim  old  days — you  doubt 
less  would  have  been  informed  that  nobody  of 
that  name  was  there.  Your  juvenile  inform 
ant,  however,  by  way  of  gratuitous  intelli 
gence,  might  have  gone  on  to  state  that  two 
families  of  the  name  of  Anderson  resided  there 
— "Old  Do-good"  Anderson,  the  preacher, 
and  his  brother  John.  But  had  you  asked  for 
"Tod"  Anderson,  or  simply  "Tod,"  your 
boy  would  have  known  Tod  ;  your  boy,  in  all 
likelihood,  would  have  had  especial  reasons 
for  remembering  Tod,  although  his  modesty, 
perhaps,  might  not  allow  him  to  inform  you 
how  Tod  had  "  waxed  it  to  him  more'n  onc't !" 
But  he  would  have  told  you,  as  I  tell  you  now, 
that  Tod  Anderson  was  the  preacher's  boy, 
and  lived  at  the  parsonage.  Tod  was  a  queer 
boy. 

(75) 


76  TOD. 

Stoddard  Anderson  was  named  in  honor  of 
some  obscure  divine  his  father  had  joined 
church  under  when  a  boy.  It  was  a  peculiar 
weakness  of  the  father  to  relate  the  experience 
of  his  early  conviction ;  and  as  he  never  tired 
of  repeating  it,  by  way  of  precept  and  admo 
nition  to  the  wayward  lambkins  of  his  flock, 
Tod  mastered  its  most  intricate  and  sacred 
phraseology,  together  even  with  the  father's 
more  religious  formulas,  to  a  degree  of  per 
fection  that  enabled  him  to  preside  at  mock 
meetings  in  the  hayloft,  and  offer  the  baptis 
mal  service  at  the  "swimmin'-hole." 

In  point  of  personal  or  moral  resemblance, 
Tod  was  in  no  wise  like  his  father.  Some 
said  he  was  the  picture  of  his  mother,  they 
who  could  remember  her,  for  she  fell  asleep 
when  Tod  was  three  days  old,  with  her  moth 
er-arms  locked  around  him  so  closely  that  he 
cried,  and  they  had  to  take  him  away  from 
her.  No. — Death  had  taken  her  away  from 
him. 

It  needs  now  no  chronicle  to  tell  how  Tod 
thrived  in  spite  of  his  great  loss,  and  how  he 
grew  to  be  a  big,  fat,  two-fisted  baby  with  a 
double  chin,  the  pride  and  constant  worry  of 
the  dear  old  grandmother  into  whose  care  he 
had  fallen.  It  requires  no  space  in  history's 
crowded  page  to  tell  how  he  could  stand  up 


TOD.  77 

by  a  chair  when  eight  months  old,  and  crow 
and  laugh  and  doddle  his  little  chubby  arms- 
till  he  quite  upset  his  balance,  and  pulling  the 
chair  down  with  him,  would  laugh  and  crow 
louder  than  ever,  and  kick,  and  crawl,  and 
sprawl,  and  jabber  ;  and  never  lift  a  whimper 
of  distress  but  when  being  rocked  to  sleep. 
Let  a  babyhood  of  usual  interest  be  inferred — 
then  add  a  few  more  years,  and  you  will  have 
the  Tod  of  ten  I  knew. 

O  moral,  godlike  and  consistent  Christian, 
what  is  it  in  the  souls  of  little  children  so  an 
tagonistic  with  your  own  sometimes?  What 
is  it  in  their  wayward  and  impulsive  natures 
that  you  cannot  brook?  And  what  strange 
tincture  of  rebellious  feeling  is  it  that  embit 
ters  all  the  tenderness  and  love  you  pour  out 
so  lavishly  upon  their  stubborn  and  resentful 
hearts  ?  Why  is  it  you  so  covetously  cherish 
the  command  divine,  "Children,  obey  your 
parents,"  and  yet  find  no  warm  nook  within 
the  breast  for  that  old  houseless  truth  that  goes 
wailing  through  the  world, 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts?" 

Tod  went  to  school.  The  thriftless  Tod — 
not  wholly  thriftless,  either;  for,  although  he 
had  not  that  apt  way  of  skimming  like  a  swal- 


78  TOD. 

low  down  the  placid  rills  of  learning,  he  dl.t 
possess,  in  some  mysterious  strength,  a  most 
extraordinary  knack  of  acquiring  just  such 
information  as  was  not  taught  at  school,  and 
had  no  place  within  the  busy  hive  of  knowl 
edge. 

Tod  was  a  failure  in  arithmetic.  Tod 
couldn't  tell  twice  ten  from  twice  eternity. 
Tod  knew  absolutely  nothing"  of  either  Chris 
topher  Columbus  or  the  glorious  country  he 
discovered  expressly  for  the  use  of  industry 
and  learning,  as  the  teacher  would  have  had 
him  implicitly  believe.  Tod  couldn't  tell  you 
anything  of  John  Smith,  even,  that  very  noted 
captain  who  walks  cheek  by  jowl  with  the 
dusky  Pocahontas  across  the  illimitable  fancy 
of  the  ten-vear-old  schoolbov  of  our  glorious 

*/  J  O 

republic.  Tod  knew  all  about  the  famous 
Captain  Kidd,  however.  In  fact,  Tod  could 
sing  his  history  with  more  lively  interest  and 
real  appreciation  than  his  fellow  schoolmates 
sang  geography.  The  simple  Tod  once  joined 
the  geographical  chorus  with — 

"I'd  a  Bible  in  my  hand, 

As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
And  I  sunk  her  in  the  sand, 
As  I  sailed." 

And  Tod — not  Captain  Kidd — had  a  ring- 


TOD.  79 

ing  in  his  ears  as  he  sung,  as  he  sung,  and  an 
overflow  of  tears  as  he  sung.  And  then  he 
ran  away  from  school  that  afternoon,  and 
sang  Captain  Kidd,  from  A  to  Izzard,  in  the 
full  hearing  of  the  "industrial  hive,"  to  the 
very  evident  amusement  of  "the  workers," 
and  the  discomfiture  of  the  ruler  of  "  the 
swarm." 

The  teacher  called  on  the  good  minister 
that  evening,  and  after  a  long  talk  on  the  back 
porch,  left  late  in  the  dusk,  wiping  his  eyes 
with  one  hand,  and  shaking  the  other  very 
warmly  with  the  preacher.  And  Tod  slipped 
noiselessly  along  the  roof  above  them,  and 
slid  down  the  other  side,  and  watched  the 
teacher's  departure  with  a  puzzled  face. 

Tod  was  at  school  next  morning  long  be 
fore  the  call  of  "books."  In  fact,  so  early, 
that  he  availed  himself  of  his  isolated  situa 
tion  to  chalk  the  handle  of  the  teacher's 
pointer,  to  bore  a  gimlet-hole  in  the  water- 
bucket,  to  slip  a  chip  under  one  corner  of  the 
clock  in  order  to  tilt  it  out  of  balance,  and  in 
many  more  ingenious  ways  to  contribute  to 
the  coming  troubles  of  the  day.  The  most 
audacious  act,  however,  was  to  climb  above 
the  teacher's  desk  and  paste  a  paper-wad 
over  a  letter  "O"  in  the  old  motto,  "Be 
good,"  that  had  offered  him  its  vain  advice 


8O  TOD. 

for  years.  As  one  by  one  these  depredations 
met  the  teacher's  notice  through  the  day,  the 
culprit  braced  himself  for  some  disastrous 
issue,  but  his  only  punishment  was  the  as 
sured  glance  the  teacher  always  gave  him, 
and  the  settled  yet  forbearing  look  of  pain 
upon  his  face.  In  sheer  daring  Tod  laughed 
aloud — a  hollow,  hungry  laugh  that  had 
no  mirth  in  it — but  as  suddenly  subsided 
in  a  close  investigation  of  a  problem  in 
mental  arithmetic,  when  the  teacher  backed 
slowly  toward  his  desk  and  stood  covertly 
awaiting  further  developments.  But  he  was 
left  again  to  his  own  inclinations,  after  hav 
ing,  with  a  brazen  air  of  innocence,  solicited 
and  gained  the  master's  assistance  in  the  so 
lution  of  a  very  knotty  problem,  which  it  is 
needless  to  say  he  knew  no  more  of  than  be 
fore.  Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day 
Tod  was  thoughtful,  and  was  evidently  evolv 
ing  in  his  mind  a  problem  far  more  serious 
than  could  be  found  in  books.  Of  his  own 
accord,  that  evening  at  the  close  of  school, 
he  staid  in  for  some  mysterious  reason  that 
even  his  own  deskmate  could  not  compre 
hend.  When  an  hour  later,  this  latter  worthy, 
from  the  old  barn  opposite,  watched  Tod  and 
the  teacher  hand  in  hand  come  slowly  down 
the  walk,  he  whispered  to  himself  with  bated 


TOD.  gl 

breath:  "What's  the  durn  fool  up  to,  any 
how?"  From  that  time  Tod  grew  to  be  a 
deeper  mystery  than  he  could  fathom,  inas 
much  as  some  strange  spirit  of  industry  fell 
upon  him,  and  he  became  a  student. 

Though  a  perverse  fate  had  seemingly  de 
creed  that  Tod  should  remain  a  failure  in  all 
branches  wherein  most  schoolboys  readily  suc 
ceed,  he  rapidly  advanced  in  reading ;  and  in 
the  declamatory  art  he  soon  acquired  a  fame 
that  placed  him  high  above  the  reach  of  com 
petitors. 

Tod  never  cried  when  he  got  up  to  "  speak." 
Tod  never  blanched,  looked  silly,  and  hung 
down  his  head.     Tod  never  mumbled  in  an 
undertone  — was  never  at  a  loss  to  use  his 
hands,  nor  ever  had   "his  piece"  so  poorly 
memorized  that  he  must  hesitate  with  awk 
ward  repetitions,  to  sit  down  at  last  in  word 
less  misery  among  the  unfeeling  and  derisive 
plaudits  of  the  school.    Tod,  in  a  word,  knew 
no  such  word  as  fail  when  his  turn  was  called 
to  entertain  his  hearers  either  with  the  gallant 
story  of  the  youthful  "  Casabianca,"  "The 
Speech  of  Logan,"  or  "  Catiline's  Defiance." 
Let  a  scholar  be  in  training  for  the  old-time 
exercises  of  Friday  afternoon,  and   he   was 
told  to  speak  out  clear  and  full— not  hang  his 
6 


82  TOD. 

head — not  let  his  arms  hang  down  like  empty 
sleeves — but  to  stand  up  like  a  king,  look  ev 
erybody  in  the  face,  as  though  he  were  doing 
something  to  be  proud  of — in  short,  to  take 
Tod  for  his  model,  and  "  speak  out  like  a 
man!" 

When  Tod  failed  to  make  his  appearance 
with  his  usual  promptness  one  Friday  after 
noon,  and  the  last  day  of  the  term,  there  was 
evidence  of  general  disappointment.  Tod  was 
to  deliver  an  oration  written  especially  for  that 
occasion  by  the  teacher.  The  visitors  were  all 
there — the  school  committee,  and  the  minister, 
Tod's  father,  who  occupied  Tod's  desk  alone 
when  "books"  was  called.  The  teacher, 
with  his  pallid,  careworn  face,  tip-toed  up  and 
down  the  aisles,  bending  occasionally  to  ask 
a  whispered  question,  and  to  let  the  look  of 
anxious  wonder  deepen  on  his  face  as  the  re 
spectful  pupils  shook  their  heads  in  silent  re 
sponse.  But  upon  a  whispered  colloquy  with 
the  minister,  his  face  brightened,  as  he  learned 
that  "Tod  was  practicing  his  oration  in  the 
wood-house  half  an  hour  before  the  ringing 
of  the  bell." 

A  boy  was  sent  to  bring  him,  but  returned 
alone,  to  say  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  find 
any  trace  of  him. 

here  in  time  enough,"  said 


TOD.  83 

the  teacher  apologetically  to  the  sad-faced 
minister.  "  He's  deeply  interested  in  his  effort 
for  this  afternoon,  and  I'm  certain  he  wouldn't 
purposely  disappoint  me."  The  good  man  in 
reply  shook  his  head  resignedly,  with  a  pray 
erful  flight  of  the  eyes  indicative  of  long  suf 
fering  and  forbearance. 

The  opening  services  of  singing  and  prayer. 
No  Tod. 

First  class  in  arithmetic  called — examined. 
No  Tod. 

Second  class,  ditto  ;  still  no  Tod.  Primary 
class  in  ditto,  composed  of  little  twin  sisters, 
aged  six,  with  very  red  hair  and  very  fair  skin, 
and  very  short  dresses,  and  very  slim  legs. 
Tod  failed  to  join  his  class. 

The  long-suffering  minister  was  ill  at  ease. 
The  exercise  failed  in  some  way  to  appease 
the  hunger  of  the  soul  within.  He  looked  out 
of  the  open  window  nervously,  and  watched  a 
saucy  little  sapsucker  hopping  up  and  down  a 
tree ;  first  up  one  side  and  then  down  the 
other,  suddenly  disappearing  near  the  roots, 
and  as  suddenly  surprising  him  with  a  mis 
chievous  pecking  near  the  top  fork.  He 
thought  of  his  poor,  wayward  boy,  with  a 
vague,  vague  hope  that  he  might  yet,  in 
some  wise  ruling  of  a  gracious  Providence, 
escape  the  gallows,  and  with  a  deep  sigh 


84  TOD. 

turned  to  the  noisy  quiet  of  the  school-room  ;. 
he  did  not  even  smile  as  he  took  up  Tod's  ge 
ography,  opened  at  the  boy's  latest  work,  a 
picture  of  the  State  seal,  where  a  stalwart  pio 
neer  in  his  shirt-sleeves  hacked  away  at  a 
gnarled  and  stubborn-looking  tree,  without 
deigning  to  notice  a  stampeding  herd  of  buf 
falo  that  dashed  by  in  most  alarming  proxim 
ity.  The  nonchalance  of  the  sturdy  yeoman 
was  intensified  by  Tod's  graphic  pen,  which 
had  mounted  each  plunging  monster  with  a 
daring  rider,  holding  a  slack  bridle-rein  in 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  swinging  a  plug 
hat  in  the  most  exultant  and  defiant  manner. 
This  piece  of  grotesque  art,  and  others  equally 
suggestive  of  the  outcropping  genius  of  their 
author,  were  put  wearily  aside,  only  serving, 
as  it  seemed,  to  deepen  rather  than  dissolve 
the  gloom  enshrouding  the  good  father's  face. 
And  so  the  exercises  wore  along  till  recess 
came,  and  with  it  came  the  missing  Tod. 

"I'm   in   time,    am   I?   Goody!"   shouted 
Tod,   jumping    over   a   small   boy  who   had 
stooped  to  pick  up  a  slate  pencil,  and  stop 
ping  abruptly  in  front  of  the  teacher's  desk. 
"  Why,  Tod  ;  what  in  the  world  !  " 
Tod's    features    wore    a    proud,    exultant 
smile,    though    somewhat    glamored   with   a 
network  of  spiteful  looking  scratches  ;  and  his 


TOD.  85 

eyes  were  more  than  usually  bright,  although 
their  lids  were  blue,  and  swollen  to  a  size 
that  half  concealed  them.  His  head,  held 
jauntily  erect,  suggested  nothing  but  boyish 
spirit ;  but  his  hair  tousled  beyond  all  rea 
son,  with  little  wisps  of  it  glued  together  with 
clots,  of  blood ;  his  best  clothes  soiled  and 
torn ;  a  bruised  and  naked  knee  showing 
through  a  straight  rent  across  one  leg  of  his 
trousers,  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  recent  pass 
age  through  some  gantlet  of  disastrous  for 
tune. 

It  was  nothing,  Tod  said,  only  on  his  way 
to  school  he  had  come  upon  a  blind  man  who 
played  the  fiddle  and  sold  lead  pencils,  and 
the  boy  who  had  been  leading  him  had  stolen 
something  from  him  ;  and  Tod  had  volunta 
rily  started  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive,  only  to 
overtake  him  after  a  prolonged  chase  of  more 
than  a  mile.  "And  now  I've  got  you  out  o' 
town,"  said  the  offender,  wheeling  suddenly 
upon  him,  "  I'll  jistmeller  your  head  for  you  !" 
After  a  long  pause,  in  which  Tod's  face  was 
hidden  from  the  curious  group  about  him,  as 
the  teacher  bent  above  him  at  the  back  steps 
pouring  water  on  his  head,  he  continued: 
"Didn't  think  the  little  cuss  was  so  stout  I  Oh  ! 
J'-n  scratched  up,  but  you  ought  to  see  him  I 
A  id  you  ought  to  hear  him  holler  '  nuf,'  and 


86  TOD. 

you  ought  to  see  him  hand  over  three  boxes 
of  pens  and  them  pen-holders  and  pencils  he 
stol'd,  and  a  whole  bunch  o'  envelopes ; 
there's  blood  on  some  of  'em,  and  the  blind 
man  said  I  could  keep  'em,  and  he  give  me  a 
lead  pencil,  too,  with  red  in  one  end  and 
blue  in  the  other.  Father,  you  sharpen  it." 

Tod  never  spoke  better  in  his  life  than  on  that 
memorable  afternoon — so  well  indeed  did  he 
acquit  himself  that  the  good  old  father  failed  to- 
censure  him  that  evening  for  the  sin  of  tight- 
ing,  and  perhaps  never  would  have  done  so- 
had  not  the  poor  blind  man  so  far  forgotten 
the  dignity  of  his  great  affliction  as  to  get  as 
drunk  as  he  was  blind  two  evenings  following, 
and  play  the  fiddle  in  front  of  the  meeting 
house  during  divine  service. 

It  was  in  the  vacation  following  these  latter- 
mentioned  incidents  that  an  occurrence  of  far 
more  seriousness  took  place. 

Tod  had  never  seen  a  circus,  for  until  this 
eventful  epoch  in  our  simple  history  our  hum 
ble  little  village  had  never  been  honored 
with  the  presence  of  this  "  most  highly  moral 
and  instructive  exhibition  of  the  age."  When 
the  grand  cavalcade,  with  its  blaring  music 
and  its  richly  caparisoned  horses,  with  their 
nodding  plumes  and  spangles,  four  abreast, 
drawing  the  identical  "fiery  chariot"  Tod 


TOD.  87 

had  heard  his  father  talk  about ;  when  all  the 
highly-painted  wagons  with  their  mysterious 
contents,  and  the  cunning  fairy  ponies  with 
their  little  fluffy  manes  and  flossy  tails — when 
all  this  burst  upon  Tod's  enraptured  eyes,  he 
fell  mutely  into  place  behind  the  band-wagon, 
with  its  myriad  followers  ;  and  so,  dazed,  awe- 
stricken  and  entranced,  accompanied  the  pa 
geant  on  its  grand  triumphal  march  around 
the  town. 

Tod  carried  water  for  the  animals  ;  Tod  ran 
errands  of  all  kinds  for  the  showmen ;  Tod 
looked  upon  the  gruff,  ill-tempered  canvas- 
hand  with  an  awe  approaching  reverence. 
Tod  was  going  to  the  show,  too,  for  he  had 
been  most  fortunate  in  exchanging  his  poor 
services  of  the  morning  for  the  "open  sesame  '* 
of  all  the  dreamed-of  wonders  of  the  arena. 
Tod  would  laugh  and  whisper  to  himself,  hug 
ging  the  ticket  closely  to  his  palpitating  side, 
as  he  ran  about  on  errands  of  a  hundred  kinds, 
occupying  every  golden  interlude  of  time  in 
drawing  the  magic  passport  from  his  pocket 
and  gloating  over  the  cabalistic  legend  "  com 
plimentary,"  with  the  accompanying  auto 
graph  of  the  fat  old  manager  with  the  broad, 
bejeweled  expanse  of  shirt-front,  and  a  watch- 
seal  as  big  as  a  walnut ;  while  on  the  reverse 
side  he  would  glut  his  vision  with  an  "  exterior 


88  TOD. 

view  of  the  monster  pavilion,"  where  a  "girl 
poised  high  in  air  on  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress," 
was  kissing  her  hand  to  a  mighty  concourse  of 
people,  who  waved  their  hats  and  handker 
chiefs  in  wildest  token  of  approval  and  ac 
claim.  Nor  was  this  the  sole  cause  of  Tod's 
delight,  for  the  fat  man  with  the  big  watch- 
seal  had  seemed  to  take  a  special  fancy  to 
him,  and  had  told  him  he  might  bring  a 
friend  along,  that  his  ticket  would  pass  two. 
As  the  gleeful  Tod  was  scampering  off  to  ask 
the  teacher  if  he  wouldn't  go,  he  met  his  anx 
ious  father  in  a  deep  state  of  distress,  and  was 
led  home  to  listen  in  agony  and  tears  to  a  dis 
mal  dissertation  on  the  wickedness  of  shows, 
and  the  unending  punishment  awaiting  the 
poor  giddy  moths  that  fluttered  round  them. 
Tod  was  missed  next  morning.  He  had  re 
tired  very  early  the  evening  previous.  "  He 
acted  strange-like,"  said  the  good  grand 
mother,  recalling  vaguely  that  he  hadn't  eaten 
any  supper,  "  and  I  thought  I  heard  him  cry 
ing  in  the  night.  What  was  the  matter  with 
him,  Isaac?  " 

Two  weeks  later  Tod  was  discovered  by  his 
distracted  father  and  an  officer,  cowering  be 
hind  a  roll  of  canvas,  whereon  a  fat  man  sat 
declaring  with  a  breezy  nonchalance  that  no 
boy  of  Tod's  description  was  "  along  o'  that 


TOD.  89 

'ere  party."  And  the  defiant  Tod,  when 
brought  to  light,  emphatically  asserted  that 
the  fat  man  was  in  no  wise  blamable  ;  that  he 
had  run  away  on  his  own  hook,  and  would  do 
it  again  if  he  wanted  to.  But  he  broke  there 
with  a  heavy  sob ;  and  the  fat  man  said : 
"There!  there!  Cootsey,  go  along  with  the 
old  'un,  and  here's  a  dollar  for  you."  And 
Tod  cried  aloud. 

The  good  minister  had  brought  a  letter  for 
him,  too,  and  as  the  boy  read  it  through  his 
tears  he  turned  homeward  almost  eagerly. 
"Dear  Tod,"  it  ran;  "I  have  been  quite 
sick  since  you  left  me.  You  must  come  back, 
tor  I  miss  you,  and  I  can  never  get  well  again 
without  you.  I've  got  a  new  kink  on  a  pair 
of  stilts  I've  made  you,  but  I  can't  tell  how 
long  to  make  them  till  you  come  back.  Fanny 
comes  over  every  day,  and  talks  about  you  so 
much  I  half  believe  sometimes  she  likes  you 
better  than  she  does  her  old  sick  uncle  ;  but  I 
can  stand  that,  because  you  deserve  it,  and 
I'm  too  old  for  little  girls  to  like  very  much. 
It'll  soon  be  the  Fourth,  you  know,  and  we 
must  be  getting  ready  for  a  big  time.  Come 
home  at  once,  for  I  am  waiting." 

"To  Stoddard  Anderson,  from  his  old  friend 
and  teacher." 

Tod  went  home.   He  hastened  to  the  teach- 


9O  TOD. 

er's  darkened  room.  The  dear  old  face  had 
grown  pale — so  very  pale  !  The  kindly  hand 
reached  out  to  grasp  the  boy's  was  thin  and 
wasted ,  and  the  gentle  voice  that  he  had  learned 
to  love  was  faint  and  low  —  so  very  low  it 
sounded  like  a  prayer.  The  good  minister 
turned  silently  and  left  the  two  old  friends 
together,  and  there  were  teardrops  in  his 
eyes. 

And  so  the  little  staggering  life  went  on 
alone.  Some  old  woman  gossip,  peering 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle  on  the  institution 
known  as  the  "  Ladies'  Benevolent  Sewing 
Society,"  said  that  it  'peared  to  her  like  that 
boy  of  the  preacher's  jest  kep'  a  pinin'  and  a 
pinin'  away  like,  ever  sence  they  fetched  him 
back  from  his  runaway  scrape.  She'd  seen 
him  "  time  and  time  again  sence  then,  and  al 
though  the  little  snipe  was  innocent-like  to  all 
appearances,  she'd  be  bound  that  he  was  in 
devilment  enough !  Reckoned  he  was  too 
proud  to  march  in  the  school  p'cession  at  the 
teacher's  funeral ;  he  didn't  go  to  the  meetin' 
house  at  all,  but  put  off  to  the  graveyard  by 
hisse'f;  and  when  they  got  there  with  the 
corpse,  he  was  a-settin'  with  his  legs  a-hangin' 
in  the  grave,  and  a-pitchin'  clods  in,  and 
a-smilin'.  "And  only  jest  the  other  evening," 
she  continued,  "  as  I  was  comin'  past  there. 


TOD.  QI 

kindo  In  the  dusk-like,  that  boy  was  a-settin* 
a-straddle  o'  the  grave,  and  jest  a-cryin'  f 
And  I  thought  it  kindo  strange-like,  and 
stopped  and  hollered  :  '  What's  the  matter 
of  ye,  Tod?'  and  he  ups  and  hollers  back: 
'  Stumpt  my  toe,  dern  ye  ! '  and  thinks  I  '  My 
youngster,  they'll  be  a  day  o'  reckonin'  for 
you ! ' " 

The  old  world  worried  on,  till  July  came  at 
last,  and  with  it  that  most  glorious  day  that 
wrapped  the  baby  nation  in  its  swaddling- 
clothes  of  stripes  and  stars  and  laid  it  in  the 
lap  of  Liberty.  And  what  a  day  that  was  I 
and  how  the  birds  did  sing  that  morn 
ing  from  the  green  lops  of  the  trees  when  the 
glad  sunlight  came  glancing  through  the 
jeweled  leaves  and  woke  them.  And  not 
more  joyous  were  the  birds,  or  more  riotous 
their  little  throbbing  hearts  to  "  pipe  the  trail 
and  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves," 
than  the  merry  children  that  came  fluttering 
to  the  grove  to  join  their  revelry. 

O,  brighter  than  a  dream  toward  the  boy 
that  swung  his  hat  from  the  tree-top  near  the 
brook  swept  the  procession  of  children  from 
the  town.  And  he  flushed  with  some  strange 
ecstasy  as  he  saw  a  little  girl  in  white,  with  a 
wreath  of  evergreen,  wave  her  crimson  sash 
ixx  answer  to  him,  while  the  column  slowly 


92  TOD. 

filed  across  the  open  bridge,  where  yet  again 
he  saw  her  re-appear  in  the  reflection  in  the 
stream  below.  Then,  after  the  dull  opening 
of  prayer,  and  the  more  tedious  exercises  fol 
lowing,  how  the  woods  did  ring  with  laughter  ; 
how  the  boys  vied  with  each  other  in  their  la 
bors  of  arranging  swings,  and  clearing  under 
brush  away  preparatory  to  a  day  of  uncon- 
fined  enjoyment ;  and  how  the  girls  shrieked 
to  "  see  the  black  man  coming,"  and  how  co- 
quettishly  they  struggled  when  captured  and 
carried  off  by  that  dread  being,  and  yet  what 
eagerness  they  displayed  in  his  behalf!  And 
•"  Ring  " — men  and  women  even  joining  in  the 
game,  and  kissing  each  other's  wives  and 
husbands  like  mad.  Why,  even  the  ugly  old 
gentleman,  with  a  carbuncle  on  the  back  of 
his  neck,  grew  riotous  with  mirth,  and  when 
tripped  full  length  upon  the  sward  by  the  lit 
tle  widow  in  half-mourning,  bustled  nim 
bly  to  his  feet  and  kissed  her,  with  some 
wicked  pun  about  "  grass"  widows,  that  made 
him  laugh  till  his  face  grew  as  red  as  his  car 
buncle.  That  bashful  young  man  who  had 
straggled  off  alone,  sitting  so  uncomfortably 
upon  a  log,  killing  bugs  and  spiders,  like  an 
ugly  giant  with  a  monster  club — how  he  must 
have  envied  the  airy  freedom  of  those  "  old 
boys  and  girls." 


TOD.  93 

Then  there  was  a  group  of  older  men  talk 
ing  so  long  and  earnestly  about  the  weather 
and  the  crops  they  had  not  discovered  that  the 
shade  of  the  old  beech  they  sat  beneath  -had 
stolen  silently  away  and  left  them  sitting  in 
the  sun,  and  was  even  then  performing  its  re 
freshing  office  for  a  big,  sore-eyed  dog,  who, 
with  panting  jaws  and  lolling  tongue,  was 
winking  away  the  lives  of  a  swarm  of  gnats 
with  the  most  stoical  indifference. 

And  so  time  wore  along  till  dinner  came, 
and  women,  with  big  open  baskets,  bent  above 
the  snowy  cloths  spread  out  upon  the  grass, 
arranging  "  the  substantials  "  and  the  dain 
ties  of  a  feast  too  varied  and  too  toothsome  for 
anything  but  epicurean  memories  to  describe. 
And  then  the  abandon  of  the  voracious  guests  I 
No  dainty  affectations — no  formality — no  eti 
quette — no  anything  but  the  full  sway  of 
healthful  appetites  incited  by  the  exhilarant 
exercises  of  the  day  into  keenest  rapacity  and 
relish. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  goin'  to  rain?  "  asked 
some  one  suddenly.  A  little  rosy-gilled  gen 
tleman,  with  the  aid  of  a  chicken-leg  for  a 
lever,  raised  his  fat  face  skyward,  and  after  a 
serious  contemplation  of  the  clouds,  wouldn't 
say  for  certain  whether  it  would  rain  or  not, 
but  informed  the  unfortunate  querist,  after 


94  TOD. 

pulling  his  head  into  its  usual  position  and 
laying  down  the  lever  to  make  room  for  a  bite 
of  bread,  that  "if  it  didn't  rain  there'd  be  a 
long  dry  spell ;  "  and  then  he  snorted  a  mimic 
snow-storm  of  bread  crumbs  on  his  vis-a-vis, 
who  looked  wronged,  and  said  he  "guessed 
he'd  take  another  piece  of  that-air  pie  down 
there." 

It  was  looking  very  much  like  rain  by  the 
time  the  dinner  things  were  cleared  away. 
Anxious  mothers,  with  preserve  stains  on 
their  dresses,  were  running  here  and  there 
with  such  exclamations  to  the  men-folks  as 
"Do  hurry  up !"  and  "For  goodness  sake, 
John,  take  the  baby  till  I  find  my  parasol," 
and  "There,  Thomas,  don't  lug  that  basket 
off  till  I  find  my  pickle-dish  !  " 

Already  the  girls  had  left  the  swings,  which 
were  being  taken  down,  and  were  tying  hand 
kerchiefs  over  their  hats  and  standing  in  de 
spairing  contemplation  of  the  ruin  of  their 
dresses.  Some  one  called  from  the  stand  for 
the  ladies  not  to  be  at  all  alarmed,  it  wasn't 
going  to  rain,  and  there  wasn't  a  particle  of 
danger  of ;  but  there  a  clap  of  thunder  in 
terrupted,  and  went  on  growling  menacingly, 
while  a  little  girl,  with  her  hair  blown  wildly 
over  her  bare  shoulders,  and  with  a  face,  which 
a  moment  before  glowed  like  her  crimson  scarf, 


TOD.  95 

now  whiter  than  her  snowy  dress,  ran  past  the 
stand  and  fell  fainting  to  the  ground.  "Is 
there  a  doctor  on  the  grounds?  "  called  a  loud 
voice  in  the  distance,  and,  without  waiting  for 
a  response  —  "For  God's  sake,  come  here 
quick ;  a  boy  has  fallen  from  the  swing,  and 
maybe  killed  himself!  " 

And  then  the  crowd  gathered  round  him 
there,  men  with  white  faces,  and  frightened 
women  and  little  shivering  children. 

"  Whose  boy  is  it?" 

"  Hush  ;  here  comes  his  father."  And  the 
good  minister,  with  stark  features  and 
clenched  hands,  passed  through  the  surging 
throng  that  closed  behind  him  even  as  the 
waves  on  Pharaoh. 

Did  I  say  all  were  excited?  Not  all;  for 
there  was  one  calm  face,  though  very  pale  — 
paler  yet  for  being  pillowed  on  the  green 
grass  and  the  ferns. 

"You  musn't  move  me,"  the  boy  said 
when  he  could  speak;  "tell  'em  to  come 
here."  He  smiled  and  tried  to  lift  and  fold 
his  arms  about  his  father's  neck.  "Poor 
father !  poor  father  !  "  as  though  speaking  to 
himself,  UI  always  loved  you,  father,  only 
you'd  never  believe  it — never  believe  it.  Now 
you  will.  I'll  see  mother,  now — mother. 
Don't  cry — I'm  hurt,  and  I  don't  cry.  And 


96  TOD. 

I'll  see  the  teacher,  too.  He  said  I  would. 
He  said  we  would  always  be  together  there. 
Where's  Fanny?  Tell  her— tell  her—"  But 
that  strange  unending  silence  fell  upon  his 
lips,  and  as  the  dying  eyes  looked  up  and  out 
beyond  the  sighing  treetops,  he  smiled  to 
catch  a  gleam  of  sunshine  through  the  foolish 
cloud  that  tried  so  hard  to  weep. 


A   PxEMARKABLE   MAN. 


FA  ME. 

I. 

Once,  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  man, 

With  haggard  face  and  tangled  hair, 
And  eyes  that  nursed  as  wild  a  care 

As  gaunt  Starvation  ever  can; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  wand 

Whose  magic  touch  gave  life  and  thought 
Unto  a  form  his  fancy  wrought, 

And  robed  with  coloring  so  grand, 
It  seemed  the  reflex  of  some  child 
Of  Heaven,  fair  and  undefiled — 
A  face  of  purity  and  love — 
To  woo  him  into  worlds  above. 

And  as  I  gazed,  with  dazzled  ej/es, 
A  gleaming  smile  lit  up  his  lips 
As  Ais  bright  soul  from  its  eclipse 

Went  flashing  into  Paradise, 

Then  tardy  Fame  came  through  the  door 

And  found  a  picture — nothing  more. 

II. 

And  once  I  saw  a  man,  alone, 

In  abject  poverty,  with  hand 
Uplifted  o'er  a  block  of  stone 

That  look  a  shape  at  his  command 
And  smiled  upon  him  fair  and  good-~ 
A  perfect  work  of  womanhood, 
Save  that  the  eyes  might  never  weep, 
(98) 


FAME.  90 

JVTor  weary  hands  be  crossed  in  sleep, 
Jfor  hair,  that  fell  from  crown  to  wrist, 
Be  brushed  away,  caressed  and  kissed, 
And  as  in  awe  I  gazed  on  her, 

1  saw  the  sculptor's  chisel  fall— 
I  saw  him  sink,  without  a  moan, 
Sink  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  stone, 
And  lie  there  like  a  worshiper. 

Fame  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hall, 

And  found  a  statue — that  was  all. 

III. 

And  once  I  saw  a  man  who  drew 

A  gloom  about  him  like  a  cloak, 
And  wandered  aimlessly.     The  few 

Who  spoke  of  him  at  all,  but  spoka 
Disparagingly  of  a  mind 
The  Fates  had  faultily  designed: 
'Too  indolent  for  modern  times — 

Too  fanciful.,  and  full  of  whims — 
For  talking  to  himself  in  rhymes, 

And  scrawling  never-heard- of  hymns, 
The  idle  life  to  which  he  clung 
Was  worthless  as  the  songs  he  sung  I 
1  saiv  him,  in  my  vision,  filled 

With  rapture  o'er  a  spray  of  bloom 

The  wind  threw  in  his  lonely  room; 
And  of  the  sweet  perfume  it  spilled 
lie  drank  to  drunkenness,  and  flung 
His  long  hair  back,  and  laughed  a?jrf  sung 


FAME. 

And  dapped  his  hands  as  children  do 

At  fairy  tales  they  listen  to, 

While  from  his  flying  quill  there  dripped 

Such  music  on  his  manuscript 

That  he  who  listens  to  the  words 

May  close  his  eyes  and  dream  the  birds 

Are  twittering  on  every  hand 

A  language  he  can  understand. 

He  journeyed  on  through  life,  unknown, 

Without  one  friend  to  call  his  own, 

He  tired.     No  kindly  hand  to  press 

The  cooling  touch  of  tenderness 

Upon  his  burning  brow,  nor  lift 

To  his  parched  lips  God's  freest  gift — • 

2fo  sympathetic  sob  or  sigh 

Of  trembling  lips — no  sorrowing  eye 

Looked  out  through  tears  to  see  him  die. 

And  Fame  her  greenest  laurels  brought 

To  crown  a  head  that  heeded  not. 

And  this  is  fame/    A  thing,  indeed, 

That  only  comes  when  least  the  need: 

The  wisest  minds  of  every  age 

The  book  oj  life  from  page  to  page 

Have  searched  in  vain;   each  lesson  conned 

Will  promise  it  the  page  beyond — 

Until  the  last,  when  dusk  of  night 

Falls  over  it,  and  reason's  light 

Is  smothered  by  that  unknown  friend 

Who  signs  his  nom  de  plume,  The  End, 


A  REMARKABLE  MAN. 

IN  the  early  winter  1875,  returning  from  a 
rather  lengthy  sojourn  in  the  Buckeye 
State,  where  a  Hoosier  is  scrutinized  as  crit 
ically  as  a  splinter  in  the  thumb  of  a  near 
sighted  man,  I  mentally  resolved  that  just  as 
soon  as  the  lazy  engine  dragging  me  toward 
home  had  poked  its  smutty  nose  into  the  selv 
edge  of  my  native  State,  I  would  disembark, 
lift  my  voice  and  shout  for  joy  for  being  safely 
delivered  out  of  a  land  of  perpetual  strangers. 

This  opportunity  was  afforded  me  at  Union 
City  —  a  fussy  old-hen-of-a-town,  forever 
clucking  over  its  little  brood  of  railroads,  as 
though  worried  to  see  them  running  over  the 
line,  and  bristling  with  the  importance  of  its 
charge. 

The  place  is  not  an  attractive  one  stepping 
from  the  train  in  the  early  dusk  of  a  Decem 
ber  evening ;  in  fact,  the  immediate  view  of 
the  town  is  almost  entirely  concealed  by  a  big 
square-faced  hotel,  standing,  as  it  were,  on  the 
very  platform,  as  though  its  "runners"  were 
(IGI) 


IO2  A   REMARKABLE    MAN. 

behind  time,  and  it  had  come  down  to  solicit 
its  own  custom.  A  walk  of  sixty  steps,  how 
ever,  gave  me  a  sweeping  view  of  the  main 
business  street  of  the  city ;  and  here  it  was, 
by  one  of  those  rare  freaks  of  circumstance,  that 
I  suddenly  found  myself  standing  face  to  face 
with  an  old  friend.  "  Smith  !  "  said  I.  "  Cor 
rect  I  "  said  he,  and  all  lacking  to  complete 
the  tableau  was  the  red  light.  And  now,  as 
my  story  has  more  to  do  with  a  more  remark 
able  man  than  either  Smith  or  myself,  I  shall 
hasten  to  that  notable — only  introducing  hum 
bler  personages  as  necessity  demands. 

That  night  was  a  bragging,  blustering,  bul 
lying  sort  of  a  night.  The  wind  was  mad — 
stark,  staring  mad  ;  running  over  and  around 
the  town,  howling  and  whooping  like  a  ma 
niac.  It  whirled  and  whizzed  and  wheeled 
about,  and  whizzed  again.  It  pelted  the  pe 
destrian's  face  with  dust  that  stung  like  sleet. 
It  wrenched  at  the  signs,  and  rattled  the  doors 
and  windows  till  the  lights  inside  shivered  as 
with  affright.  The  unfurled  awnings  fluttered 
and  flapped  over  the  deserted  streets  like  mon 
strous  bats  or  birds  of  prey ;  and,  gritting 
their  iron  teeth,  the  shutters  lunged  and 
snapped  at  their  fastenings  convulsively.  Such 
a  night  as  we  like  to  hide  away  from,  and 
with  a  good  cigar,  a  good  friend,  and  a  good 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN.  103 

fire,  talk  of  soothing  things  and  dream.  My 
friend  and  I  were  not  so  isolated,  however, 
upon  this  occasion  ;  for  the  suddenness  of  the 
storm  had  driven  us,  for  shelter,  into  "  Bow- 
ers's  Emporium  ;  "  and,  seated  in  the  rear  of 
Ihe  spacious  and  brightlj  -illuminated  store, 
we  might  almost  "  dream  we  dwelt  in  marble 
halls,"  were  it  not  for  the  rather  profuse  dis 
play  of  merchandise  and  a  voluminous  com 
plement  of  show-cards,  reading  "Bargains  in 
Overcoats,"  "Best  and  Cheapest  Under 
wear,"  "  Buy  Bowers's  Boots  !  "  etc.,  etc. 

The  clerks  were  all  idle,  and  employing 
their  leisure  in  listening  to  a  "fine-art"  con 
versation,  casually  introduced  by  my  friend 
remarking  the  extraordinary  development  of 
the  bust  and  limbs  of  a  danseuse  on  a  paper 
collar-box ;  and  alter  deploring  the  prosti 
tution  to  which  real  talent  was  subjected,  and 
satirizing  the  general  degeneracy  of  modern 
art,  he  had  drifted  back  to  the  rare  old  days 
of  Hans  Holbein,  Albert  Durer  and  that 
guild.  And  while  dwelling  enthusiastically 
upon  the  genius  of  Angelo,  I  became  aware 
that  among  the  listeners  was  a  remarkable 
man.  It  was  not  his  figure  that  impressed 
me,  for  that  was  of  the  ordinary  mould,  and 
rather  shabbily  attired  in  a  tattered  and  ill-fit 
ting  coat  of  blue,  sadly  faded  and  buttonless  ; 


IO4  A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

a  short-waisted  vest  of  no  particular  pattern, 
fastened  together  by  means  of  a  loosened 
loop  of  binding  pulled  through  a  button-hole, 
and  held  to  its  place  by  a  stumpy  lead-pencil 
with  a  preponderance  of  rubber  at  the  end ; 
the  pantaloons  very  baggy  and  fraying  at  the 
bottoms,  as  though  in  excessive  sympathy 
with  a  pair  of  coarse,  ungainly  army  shoes 
that  wore  the  appearance  of  having  been 
through  "  Sherman's  march  to  the  sea." 

Not  remarkable,  I  say,  in  these  particulars, 
for  since  "  tramping"  has  arrived  at  the  dig 
nity  of  a  profession,  such  characteristics  are 
by  no  means  uncommon ;  but  when  taken  in 
conjunction  with  a  head  and  face  that  would 
have  served  as  model  for  either  Abraham, 
Isaac  or  Jacob,  in  patriarchal  cast  of  feature 
and  flow  of  beard,  it  is  no  wonder  that  my 
fancy  saw  in  the  figure  before  me  a  remarka 
ble  man.  He  stood  uncovered,  and  in  an  eager 
listening  attitude,  as  though  drinking  every 
syllable  to  the  very  dregs.  His  eyes  were 
large  and  lustrous,  and  with  that  dreamy, 
far-off  look  peculiar  to  that  quality  of  mind 
that  sees  what  is  described,  even  though 
buried  in  Pompeiian  ruins,  or  under  the  pyra 
mids  of  Egypt. 

He  met  my  rather  scrutinizing  gaze  with  a 
friendly  and  forgiving  expression — adding  an 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN.  105 

intuitive  affinity  by  a  nestling  of  the  palms  one 
within  the  other  and  a  genial  friction  indica 
tive  of  warm  impulse  and  openness,  yet  withal 
suggesting  a  due  subservience  to  my  own  free 
will  to  accept  as  token  of  genuine  esteem  and 
admiration. 

I  thought  I  read  his  character  aright  in  fan 
cying  "  Here  is  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary 
culture  and  refinement,"  and  I  determined,  if 
it  were  possible,  to  know  him  better.  When 
I  took  an  early  opportunity  to  refer  to  him  for 
information  he  responded  eagerly,  and  in  so 
profuse  and  elegant  a  style  of  diction  that  I 
was  surprised. 

He  referred  to  Angelo  as  "That  master 
whose  iron  pencil  painted  language  on  lips  of 
stone,  and  whose  crudest  works  in  clay  might 
well  outlive  the  marble  monuments  of  modern 
art."  He  glanced  from  one  topic  to  another 
with  a  grace  and  ease  that  not  only  betokened 
a  true  mastery  of  the  language,  but  an  in 
exhaustible  fund  of  information ;  nor  was  it 
long  ere  my  "  stock  in  hand  "  dwindled  down 
to  the  insignificant  "  yes-and-of-course  "  ver 
bosity  that  is  not  worth  the  giving  away.  He 
dwelt  with  particular  fondness  upon  literature  ; 
frequently  referring  to  me  as  to  works  I  most 
admired,  and  pointing  out  the  beauties  and 
excellence  of  old  authors  —  Shakespeare, 


IO6  A    REMARKABLE    MAN. 

Milton,  Pope,  Dryden,  and  a  host  of  others 
long  dead  and  gone,  but  whose  words  live  on 
eternally.  All  these,  as  they  were  successively 
reviewed,  he  quoted  in  a  manner  that  evinced 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  their  works. 

At  last,  after  no  little  artifice  and  strategy, 
I  drew  him  to  his  own  history,  which,  as  he 
proceeded,  grew  fantastically  interesting. 
His  father,  passing  rich,  had  educated  him  for 
the  ministry ;  but  the  profession  didn't  suit 
him,  or,  rather,  he  didn't  suit  the  profession  ; 
for,  to  be  frank,  he  was  rather  inclined  in  his 
younger  days  to  be  a  "  graceless  dog;"  and 
so,  when  it  became  evident  that  he  must  shift 
for  himself,  more  at  the  instigation  of  literary 
friends  than  from  any  ambition  or  choice,  he 
had  entered  the  journalistic  field,  beginning 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder — the  bottom — and 
gradually  rising  from  the  compositor's  case  to 
the  very  rung  of  editorial  success — when  there 
came  a  crash,  a  flaw  in  the  grain,  my  boy,  a 
flaw  in  the  grain — and  that  flaw —  Well,  no 
matter  I —  The  noblest  minds  had  toppled  from 
the  height,  and  crumbled  to  the  merest  debris 
of  pauper  intellect.  The  grandest  tomb  the 
finger  of  the  nation  could  point  out  was  glut 
ted  with  such  food.  Did  he  not  remember 
poor  Prentice,  and,  in  memory,  recall  him  now 
as  vividly  as  though  but  yesterday,  entering 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

the  sanctum  of  the  Louisville  Journal,  with 
the  old-time  greeting:  "Ah,  Charles; 
ready  for  work,  I  see.  Well,  here  am  I — 
punctual  as  Death.  "  And  then,  after  a  good 
stiff  brandy,  which  he  could  hardly  raise  to 
his  lips  with  both  trembling  hands,  poor 
George  !  how  he  would  dictate,  so  rapidly  that 
he  (Charles)  could  scarcely  put  it  down,  al 
though  a  clever  hand  at  writing  in  those  days. 
Served  as  amanuensis  for  five  years,  and  tran 
scribed  with  his  own  hand,  "  'Tis  Midnight's 
Holy  Hour,"  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  had  the  poem  entire  ready  for  the  com 
positor  at  half-past.  At  such  times  it  was 
nothing  uncommon  for  George  to  say,  "  Well 
done,  thou  good  and  faithful ;  the  big  end  of 
the  day  is  left  you  to  transcribe  as  your  pleas 
ure  may  dictate.  Only  bear  in  mind,  I  shall 
expect  a  little  gem  from  your  individual  pen 
for  to-morrow's  issue  !  " 

"And  do  you  write?  "  I  broke  in  abruptly. 

"  I  used  to  write,"  he  answered,  as  though 
loath  to  make  the  acknowledgment — "  that  is, 
I  sometimes  rode  Pegasus  as  a  groom  might 
ride  his  master's  horse — but  my  flights  were 
never  high — never  high  !  " 

"For  what  reason,  may  I  inquire?  Surely 
you  had  no  lack  of  inspiration  with  such  men 
as  Prentice  about  you?" 


IO8  A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

"Aye,  there's  the  rub  !  "  he  sighed,  with  a 
negative  shake.  "The  association  of  great 
men  does  not  always  tend  to  develop  genius ; 
the  more  especially  when  one's  subservient 
position  revolutionizes  him  into  a  mere  ma 
chine.  Yet  I  found  some  time,  of  course,  for 
verse-making  ;  and,  chiefly  owing  to  the  kindly 
encouragement  of  Mr.  Prentice,  I  '  gave  to 
the  world,'  as  he  was  pleased  to  say,  many  lit 
tle  poems,  but  those  of  them  that  survive  to 
day  are  vagrants,  like  myself,  and  drifting 
about  at  the  mercy  of  the  press.  Here  the  old 
man  sighed  heavily  and  mechanically  fumbled 
his  pencil. 

I  was  growing  deeply  interested  in  the 
strange  character  before  me,  and  although  the 
faces  of  the  group  smiled  at  me  significantly, 
I  was  not  to  be  beguiled  from  my  new  ac 
quaintance. 

"There  is  a  question,"  said  I,  "I  would 
like  to  ask  you,  since  from  actual  experience 
you  are  doubtless  well  informed  upon  it.  I 
have  often  heard  it  argued  that  the  best  pro 
ductions  of  authors — poets  in  particular — are 
written  under  the  influence  of  what  they  are 
pleased  to  term  '  inspiration ; '  can  you  en 
lighten  me  as  to  the  truth  of  that  assertion?  " 

"  I  can  say  in  reply,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  h*s  unwavering  eyes  fixed  upon  mine,  "  I 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN.  1 09 

can  say  in  reply  that  the  best  productions  of 
authors — poets  in  particular — are  written  un 
der  the  influence  of  what  they  are  pleased  to- 
term  '  inspiration.'  I  have  seen  it  proved." 

"  How  proved?"  I  asked. 

"  Listen.  Take,  for  example,  an  instance 
I  will  cite :  A  man  worn  and  enfeebled  by 
age,  whose  eyes  are  dimmed  to  sightlessness 
almost,  whose  mind,  once  clear  and  vivid  as 
the  light  of  day — now  wavering  and  fickle  as 
the  wind :  and  yet  at  times  this  influence 
comes  upon  him  like  an  avalanche,  and  as 
irresistible ;  a  voice  cries,  '  write !  write  I 
write  ! '  nor  does  he  know,  when  he  has  obeyed 
that  summons,  what  his  trembling  hand  has 
written.  Further,  that  this  is  divine  inspira 
tion — his  fragmentary  productions  will  often 
times  be  in  the  exact  manner  and  diction  of 
writers  long  since  passed  away  ;  and  I  am  sat 
isfied  they  are  produced  at  the  direct  dictation 
of  the  departed.  I  know  this  !  " 

"You  astonish  me,"  said  I  in  unfeigned 
wonder;  "you  say  you  know  this — how  do 
you  know  it?" 

"  Because  I  am  the  man." 

Although  the  assertion,  in  my  mind,  was 
simply  preposterous,  there  was  a  certain  maj 
esty  in  the  utterance  that  held  me  half  in  awe. 
I  looked  upon  him  as  one  might  look  upon 


IIO  A   REMARKABLE    MAN. 

some  curious  being  from  an  unknown  world. 
He  was  moving  now — pacing  grotesquely  up 
and  down  a  little  space  of  half  a  dozen  steps, 
and  wheeling,  at  the  limits  of  his  walk,  as 
nimbly  as  the  harlequin  in  the  pantomime,  and 
repeating,  as  though  to  himself,  "I  am  the 
man  ;  I  am  the  man." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I,  forcing  myself  into  an 
air  of  indifference  I  did  not  feel ;  "well,  sir, 
not  for  a  moment  questioning  your  own  belief 
as  to  this  strange  influence  which  may  possess 
you  at  times,  you  will  pardon  me  for  express 
ing  the  vaguest  skepticism,  since  I  have  never 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  witness  an  actual  dem 
onstration."  He  was  about  to  interrupt  me, 
but  I  continued  coolly,  "By  what  circum 
stance  is  this  influence  introduced — or  how 
produced — is  it " 

He  broke  in  on  me  with  a  keen  little  pang 
of  a  laugh  that  almost  made  me  shudder. 
"You  are  my  convert,"  he  exclaimed,  ex 
citedly.  "Quick  !  Give  me  paper — give  me  pa 
per!  "  but  before  I  could  take  my  note-boot 
from  my  pocket  he  had  hurriedly  snatched 
a  scrap  of  wrapping-paper  from  the  counter, 
and  bending  over  it,  was  writing  with  great 
rapidity. 

His  manner  was  decidedly  singular.  In 
the  occasional  pauses  he  would  make  he 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN.  Ill 

would  lean  his  forehead  in  the  palm  of  his 
left  hand,  with  the  fingers  dancing  nervously 
upon  the  bald  spot  on  the  summit  of  his  head, 
while  with  the  hand  that  held  the  pencil  he 
kept  up  a  continued  rotary  movement  in  the 
air.  Then  he  would  suddenly  pounce  down 
upon  the  paper  before  him  as  though  in  a 
perfect  frenzy  of  delight,  and  line  after  line 
would  appear  as  if  by  magic,  each  succeeding 
one  preluded  by  that  sharp  little  yelp  of  a 
laugh,  and  ere  three  minutes  had  elapsed,  he 
had  covered  both  sides  of  the  paper.  He 
then  threw  down  his  pencil,  as  though  re 
luctantly,  pushed  me  the  scrap  and  motioned 
me  to  read.  I  was  at  first  completely  mysti 
fied,  for  what  I  had  confidently  expected  to 
be  rhyme  was  prose  ;  but  ere  I  had  examined 
it  far  I  was  as  highly  gratified  as  at  first  dis 
appointed.  The  writing,  although  so  reck 
lessly  scrawled,  was  quite  legible,  and  here 
and  there  gave  evidence  of  more  than  ordi 
nary  grace  and  elegance  ;  the  punctuation,  as 
far  as  I  was  able  to  judge,  seemed  perfect  in 
every  part ;  and,  in  fact,  the  entire  produc 
tion  bore  the  appearance  of  having  been  exe 
cuted  by  a  skillful  hand. 

I  copy  it  verbatim  from  the  original  scrap 
which  now  lies  before  me : 


112  A   REMARKABLE    MAN. 

"  By  this  time  they  had  come  upon  the  figure  of  the  old 
hag,  seated  by  the  roadside,  and,  in  a  harsh,  cracked  voice, 
crooning  a  dismal  ballad.  'By  God's  rood,'  quoth  the 
knight,  in  a  burst  of  admiration,  '  did  I  not  tell  thee  'twas 
eome  fair  princess,  decoyed  from  her  father's  castle  and 
thus  transformed,  through  the  despicable  arts  of  some 
wicked  enchanter  ;  for  thou  hast  but  to  perk  an  ear  to  have 
the  sense  of  hearing  bathed  and  overflowed  with  melody. 
Dost  thou  not  also  note  rare  grace  and  sweetest  dignity 
voiced,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  tatters  that  enclothe  her 
form?'  'Indeed  thou  mayest,'  said  the  squire;  'for  I 
have  heard  it  said  "  rags  may  enfold  the  purest  gold." — Yet 
in  this  instance  I  am  restrained  to  think  it  more  like  the 
hidalgo's  dinner — "  very  little  meat  and  a  good  deal  of  ta 
ble-cloth.'"  'Hold  thy  peace,  bladderhead,'  exclaimed 
the  knight,  'lest  I  make  thee  gnaw  thy  words  with  loosened 
teeth.  Listen  what  liquid  syllables  are  spilled  upon  the 
atmosphere : 

"  My  father's  halls,  so  rich  and  rare, 
Are  desolate  and  bleak  and  bare; 
My  father's  heart  and  halls  are  one,' 
Since  I,  their  life  and  light,  am  gone. 

"O,  valiant  knight,  with  hand  of  steel 
And  heart  of  gold,  hear  my  appeal: 
Release  me  from  the  spoiler's  charms, 
And  bear  me  to  my  father's  arms.' 

"  The  knight  had  by  this  time  thrown  himself  from  his 
steed,  and  with  lance  reversed  and  vizor  doffed  he  sank 
upon  his  knees  in  the  slime  and  ooze  of  the  dyke,  exclaim 
ing  :  '  Be  of  good  heart,  fair  princess !  Thy  succor  is  at 
hand,  since  the  fates  have  woven  thee — the  pearl  of  pearls 
— into  the  warp  and  woof  of  my  great  destiny.  Nay,  nay  I 
No  thanks  I  Thy  father's  beaming  eye  alone  shall  be  my 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN.  113 

guerdon,  for  home  thou  shalt  go,  even  though  I  must  needs 
truckle  thee  thither  on  a  barrow.' " 

"  Good,"  said  I,  grasping  the  old  man  by 
the  hand.  "  Hail  Cervantes  !" 

"  Cervantes,  Cervantes,"  he  mused,  as 
though  bewildered  ;  "  why,  what  have  I  been 
writing?  Is  it  not  poetry?  " 

"Yes,"  I  replied  enthusiastically,  "both 
prose  and  poetry,  and  that  of  the  rarest  school. 
Read  for  yourself." 

I  handed  him  the  scrap,  but  he  pushed  it 
from  him  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  I 
told  you  once  I  could  not  read  it,  nor  do  I 
know  what  I  have  written.  Read  it  aloud." 

Although  I  hastened  to  comply,  I  did  it  with 
a  decided  air  of  incredulity  as  to  the  belief 
that  he  did  not  already  know  every  word  of  it, 
and  even  closed  with  the  gratuitous  comment 
that  I  felt  assured  the  quotation  was  perfect  in 
every  particular. 

"  Quotation  !  "  repeated  the  old  man  com- 
miseratively  ;  "  quotation  !  Were  you  as  well 
versed  in  such  works,  my  son,  as  you  led  me 
at  first  to  presume,  you  would  know  at  once 
that  not  a  single  line  of  that  occurs  in  Don 
Quixote,  although  I  do  grant  that  I  am  the 
humble  instrument  through  which  the  great 
Cervantes  has  just  spoken."  With  this  re- 
8 


114  A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

mark,  delivered  in  a  half-rebuking,  half-com 
passionate  tone,  he  stood  milking  his  beard 
and  blinking  at  the  chandelier. 

I  acknowledged  my  error  and  asked  pardon 
for  the  insinuation,  which  I  begged  he  would 
believe  was  not  intended  to  offend  ;  and  that, 
upon  second  thought,  I  was  satisfied  that  no 
such  matter  did  exist  in  the  printed  history, 
which  fact  I  have  since  proved  by  a  thorough 
investigation. 

It  required,  however,  considerable  inventive 
tact  and  show  of  admiration  to  counteract  the 
effect  of  my  indiscreet  remark  ;  and  not  was 
this  effectually  accomplished  until  I  had  inci 
dentally  discovered  a  marked  resemblance  of 
his  brow  to  Shakespeare's,  which,  by  actual 
measurement,  I  found  to  correspond  to  a  frac 
tion  with  the  measurement  of  the  mask  of  that 
illustrious  bard,  as  furnished  by  an  exhaustive 
article  I  had  seen  a  short  time  previous  in  one 
of  our  magazines. 

This  happily  brought  about  the  result  I  so 
much  longed  for,  as  I  was  extremely  desirous 
of  a  further  opportunity  in  which  to  study  the 
character  of  this  remarkable  man.  "Ah, 
Shakespeare  ! "  said  he  in  a  burst  of  genuine 
eloquence.  "  There  was  a  mind  the  gods  en 
dowed  with  wisdom  ages  have  yet  to  learn  ;  for 
bright  and  lustrous  as  it  shines  to-day — the 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN.  1 15 

Morning  Star  of  human  intellect — its  glitter 
ing  purity  has  yet  a  million  million  dawns, 
•each  brighter  than  the  last.  Its  chastened 
rays  are  yet  to  blaze  and  radiate  the  darkened 
ways — Hold  !  My  pencil !  Quick — quick  !  " 
He  snatched  at  the  paper  wildly,  and  bend 
ing  over  it,  began  writing  with  a  vindictive- 
ness  of  effort  that  was  alarming.  He  slashed 
the  t's  and  stabbed  the  punctuation  points  sav 
agely.  The  writing  continued,  interspersed 
occasionally  with  a  pause  in  which  he  would 
flourish  his  pencil  like  a  dripping  sword,  only 
to  be  plunged  again  and  again  into  the  quiv 
ering  breast  oi  its  victim.  Finally  he  dashed 
it  down,  pushed  the  paper  from  him  as  one 
would  spurn  a  vanquished  enemy,  and  sank, 
limp  and  exhausted,  into  a  chair.  I  snatched 
up  the  paper  eagerly,  and  read : 

Fahtaff:  I  call  him  dog,  forsooth,  because  he  snarls- 
Snarls,  d'ye  hear? — and  laves  his  rabid  fangs 
In  slobber-froth  that  drips  in  slimy  gouts 
Of  venomous  slander.     Out  upon  the  curl 
He  sets  his  mangy  foot  upon  the  sod, 
And  grass  grows  rank  and  withers  at  the  touch, 
And  tangles  into  wiry  thatch  for  snakes 
To  spawn  beneath.     The  very  air  he  breathes 
Becomes  a  poison  gas,  and  generates 
Disease  and  pestilence.     Would  he  were  here, 
That  I  might  whet  my  sword  against  his  ribs, 
Although  his  rotten,  putrid  soul  unhoused 
Would  breed  a  stench  worse  than  my  barber's  breath. 


Il6  A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

The  dog!     The  damnable — 

Pistol:  Hist !  here  he  comes ! 

God's  body  !  master,  has  he  overheard 
'Tis  cock-crow  with  thy  ghost ! 

(Enter  Poins.)     How  now,  my  Jack — 

Prince  ass  of  Jacks,  methought  I  heard  thee  b~ay. 

Falstaff:  Aye,  well  and  marry  !  for  this  varlet  here 
Deserves  more  brays  than  praise,  the  scurvy  dog ! 
Good  lack  !  Thou  might'st  have  heard  me  call  him  dog 
A  pebble's  toss  from  this;  but  now  that  thou  art  come, 
My  dagger-points  of  wrath  do  melt  away 
Before  thy  genial  smile,  as  icicles 
Might  ooze  to  nothingness  at  summer  noon. 
That  other  flask,  you  dog !  and  have  a  care 
Thou  handle  it  more  gently  than  the  first, 
Lest  I,  as  thou  didst  it,  thy  noddle  burst. 

Although  expecting  something  after  the 
Shakespearian  school,  I  was  not  prepared  for 
this,  and  in  reading  it  aloud  I  actually  found 
myself  endeavoring  to  imitate  the  stage  man 
ner  of  Hackett,  whom  years  ago  I  had  seen 
in  King  Henry  Fourth  at  the  old  Metropoli 
tan,  Indianapolis.  "Ah  !  "  said  the  old  man, 
"  You  are  more  familiar  with  that  I  see.  Tell 
me,  have  you  ever  seen  those  lines  in  Shakes 
peare?  "  There  was  such  a  look  of  conscious 
triumph  in  his  face,  so  self-satisfied  an  ex 
pression,  that  I — although  half  believing  I 
was  in  some  way  being  duped — could  but  reply 
that  I  was  most  thoroughly  convinced  the  lines 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN. 

did  not  occur  in  any  of  the  works  of  that 
great  master. 

"They  do  not,"  said  the  old  man  briefly. 

"  But  how,"  said  I,  "  is  it  possible  for  you 
to  so  perfectly  imitate  his  style,  not  only  in 
language,  but  theme,  expression,  force,  char 
acter,  grotesqueness — " 

"Stop,  my  son;  stop!"  he  broke  in; 
"must  I  again  remind  you  that  it  is  not 
imitation ;  I  take  no  credit  to  myself — how 
dare  I  when  in  writing  thus  my  individual 
mind  is  gone,  simply  chaotic.  It  is  not  imi 
tation  ;  it  is  Shakespeare?  " 

I  could  venture  no  further  comment  with 
out  fear  of  offending,  and  he  already  stood  as 
though  hesitating  to  depart. 

"  Stay,  then,"  said  I,  "  until  I  see  a  further 
exercise  of  this  marvelous  power  you  possess. 
Here,  sit  down,  rest  awhile  ;  you  seem  almost 
exhausted." 

"  I  am  nearly  so,"  he  replied,  "  but  there 
is  no  rest  for  me  until  this  influence  is  entirely 
subsided.  No  rest  for  me  yet ;  no  rest !  no 
rest !  " 

He  was  again  pacing  his  old  walk,  like  a 
weary  sentinel,  and  I  thought  as  I  gazed 
upon  him,  "  What  riddle  of  the  human  kind 
is  this?  Over  and  over  again  came  the  ques- 


Il8  A   REMARKABLE    MAN. 

tion ;  and  over  and  over  an  old  rhyme  I  had 
somewhere  read,  mockingly  responded — 

"  Rain,  sun  and  rain — a  rainbow  in  the  sky  ; 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by — 
An  old  man's  wits  may  wander  ere  he  die!" 

And  lulled  by  the  wild  monotony  of  this,  I 
was  fast  drifting  into  a  dreamy  train  of 
thought,  when  the  old  man  halted  suddenly, 
and  with  one  elbow  leaning  on  the  counter 
and  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  he  began 
humming  a  tune — a  strangely  sweet  and 
tender  air,  low,  and  just  a  little  harsh  at 
first  and  indistinct,  but  welling  softly  in 
to  cadence  wonderfully  rich  and  pure — then 
quavering  again  in  minor  swoons  of  melody 
so  delicately  beautiful  I  can  but  liken  the 
effect  produced  in  that  ethereal  mystery  of 
sound  unraveled  from  the  zithern  by  a  master 
hand, — 

"A  slender  thread  of  song  in  saddest  tune." 

I  had  leaned  forward  with  my  own  head 
resting  in  my  hand,  that  I  might  the  better 
listen,  and  was  not  aware,  until  the  song  ab 
ruptly  ended,  that  the  old  man  had  been 
writing  as  he  sang. 

"There,"  said  he,  handing  me  the  scrap. 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN. 

"  you   have   heard   the   tune ;   here    are   the 
words,  perhaps." 

It  may  have  been  a  very  foolish  thing,  it 
may  have  been  weak  and  womanish,  yet  as 
my  eyes  bent  over  it  and  read,  the  lines  grew 
curiously  blurred  toward  the  last ;  nor  did  I 
guess  the  cause  until  a  tear — a  great  ripe 
tear-drop  fell  upon  my  hand.  And,  reader, 
could  I  present  the  song  to  you  just  as  it  came 
to  me,  with  all  the  strange  surroundings — the 
stranger  experience  of  the  hour ;  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  group  ;  the  wailing  of  the  wind 
outside  as  though  the  world,  weary  of  itself, 
could  only  sigh,  sigh,  sigh !  could  I  prelude 
it  with  that  low,  sweet  murmuring  of  melody 
that  haunts  me  even  now,  your  own  eyes 
needs  must  moisten  as  you  read  : 

"  THE    HARP    OF    THE    MINSTREL." 

"  The  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 

As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 
For  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright ; 
But  oh  !  as  the  smile  of  the  moon  may  impart 

A  sorrow  to  one  in  an  alien  clime, 
Let  the  light  of  the  melody  fall  on  the  heart, 

And  cadence  his  grief  into  musical  rhyme. 

"  The  faces  have  faded,  the  eyes  have  grown  dim 

That  once  were  his  passionate  love  and  his  pride; 
And  alas!  all  the  smiles  that  once  blossomed  for  him 
Have  fallen  away  as  the  flowers  have  died. 


I2O  A   REMARKABLE   MAN. 

The  hands  that  entwined  him  the  laureate's  wreath, 
And  crowned  him  with  fame  in  the  long,  long  ago, 

Like  the  laurels  are  withered  and  folded  beneath 
The  grass  and  the  stubble — the  frost  and  the  snow. 

**  Then  sigh,  if  thou  wilt,  as  the  whispering  strings 

Strive  ever  in  vain  for  the  utterance  clear ; 
And  think  of  the  sorrowful  spirit  that  sings, 

And  jewel  the  song  with  the  gem  of  the  tear. 
For  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 

As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 
And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright." 

I  had  read  the  lines  over  to  myself,  and  al 
though  recognizing  many  touches  decidedly 
like  those  of  the  famous  author  of  Lalla  Rookh, 
I  was  not  wholly  satisfied  with  the  produc 
tion  ;  and  it  struck  me  with  peculiar  force 
that  an  ethereal  composition  would  surely  not 
be  so  lavishly  tinctured  with  unutterable  sor 
row — aside  from  being  far  inferior  to  a  hun 
dred  earthly  songs  of  Moore's ;  so,  with  this 
argument  for  my  weapon,  I  determined  to 
conquer  the  superstition  that  had  almost  over 
powered  me.  I  had  noticed,  too,  in  both 
former  instances  a  singular  fact :  The  old 
man,  though  so  ready  to  fend  oft' all  comment 
that  might  reflect  a  single  ray  of  praise  upon 
himself,  listened  with  more  of  the  air  of  a  critic 
than  one  whose  interest  was  merely  that  of  cu- 

«/ 

riosity,  and  still  when  the  fragnentary  produc- 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN.  121 

tion  had  been  read  aloud,  a  look  of  more  than 
ordinary  satisfaction  would  lighten  up  his 
eyes.  These  facts,  hastily  reviewed,  deter 
mined  me  upon  a  course  of  action  I  had  in 
stant  opportunity  to  adopt. 

"Read  it  aloud,"  said  the  old  man,  impa 
tiently  ;  "  Read  it  aloud  !  " 

I  complied  with  more  than  usual  enthusi 
asm,  reading  verbatim  from  the  copy,  until  I 
came  to  the  repetition  of  the  first  four  lines, 
which  I  thus  transposed : 

"  The  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  note 

As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  expressed, 
And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  afloat 
Drifts  over  the  echoes  that  sleep  in  the  breast." 

This  I  was  careful  to  deliver  without  empha 
sis  or  mark  of  any  kind  by  which  he  might 
discover  any  imposition  on  my  part.  As  I 
closed  I  stole  a  hasty  glance  at  his  face,  and 
was  gratified  to  find  it  wearing  a  rather  star 
tled  expression  ;  not  only  did  his  features  be 
tray  a  puzzled  and  questioning  air,  but  his 
hand  was  mechanically  extended,  as  though 
reaching  for  the  paper  in  my  own. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  it?"  I  asked,  sud 
denly,  handing  him  the  scrap. 

"Yes,  I — O,  no — no,"  he  broke  in,  drop 
ping  his  hand,  and  his  face  coloring  vividly; 


122  A  REMARKABLE   MAN. 

but  turning  again  as  quickly,  he  added  :  "Yes, 
give  it  to  me.  Where  are  the  others?  I  must 
be  going." 

"Why  must  you  go?"  I  asked,  still  retain 
ing  the  scrap  ;  "  I  had  hoped " 

"I  am  going!"  he  interrupted  brusquely, 
snatching  up  the  scraps  that  lay  upon  the 
counter,  and  reaching  for  the  one  I  still  held. 
"Give  me  the  poem.  I  will  trouble  you  no 
longer." 

"Allow  me  to  retain  it,  I  beg  of  you,"  said 
I,  with  a  significant  smile,  and  the  slightest 
tinge  of  sarcasm  in  my  voice.  "  Let  me  keep 
it  as  a  befitting  memento  of  the  inspiration  I 
have  seen  so  potently  exercised." 

His  face  was  pale  with  anger  as  he  replied-: 

"  I  will  not.  When  you  want  rhyme  write 
it  yourself.  You  can,  at  least,  write  dog 
gerel." 

"  Very  neat,"  said  I,  laughing.  "  We  un 
derstand  each  other,  so  let's  be  friends.  Here 
is  my  hand  and  a  dollar  besides.  Give  me 
the  other  scraps — I  want  them  all." 

I  took  them  from  him  as  he  clutched  at  the 
bill,  which  he  smothered  in  his  palm,  and 
turned  away  without  a  word. 

"  Here,  Charley,"  called  one  of  the  by 
standers,  "half  of  that's  enough  for  you  to 
night." 


A   REMARKABLE   MAN.  123 

The  door  slammed  violently  and  he  was 
gone. 

"  Old  Cain  will  have  that  dollar  in  just  five 
minutes,"  continued  the  man. 

"And  who's  Old  Cain?"  I  asked. 

"  Keeps  the  doggery  just  over  the  line.'* 

"Old  Charley"  M is  a  well-known 

character  in  Union  City — his  home,  in  fact, 
although  he  often  disappears  for  long  periods, 
but,  as  my  informant  remarked,  "  always 
turns  up  again  like  a  bad  penny." 

The  story  of  his  early  life  is  at  least  based 
upon  the  truth,  but  now  so  highly  colored  it  is 
a  decidedly  difficult  matter  to  detect  that  sim 
ple  element. 

Originally  he  was  a  printer,  but  early  aban 
doned  that  vocation  for  another,  and  that  in 
turn  for  another,  and  so  on,  until  by  easy 
gradations  he  had  become,  as  the  old  saw  has 
it,  "Jack  of  all  trades  and  master  of  none." 

Among  his  many  accomplishments  he  is  a 
musician  of  considerable  skill — plays  the  flute, 
violin  and  guitar  all  quite  passably ;  a  great 
reader,  a  fine  conversationalist — which  ac 
complishment  I  personally  vouch  for.  But 
chief  of  all  his  accomplishments  is  that  of  writ 
ing  clever  imitations  of  the  old  authors  and 
poets.  These  productions  he  prepares  with 


124  A   REMARKABLE    MAN. 

great  care,  commits  them  to  memory,  and  is 
ready  to  dispose  of  them  by  as  ingenious  a 
method. 

And  yet,  although  he  be  a  vagabond ;  al 
though  his  friends — such  as  they  are — are  first 
to  call  him  sot ;  although  the  selfish  world  that 
hurries  past  may  jostle  him  unnoticed  from  the 
path  ;  and  though  he  styles  himself  a  "  grace 
less  dog,"  in  all  candor,  and  in  justice  to  my 
true  belief,  I  call  him  a  remarkable  man. 


A  NEST-EGG. 


OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES. 

They  ain't  no  style  about  'em, 

And  they're  sort  o'  pale  and  faded; 
Yit  the  doorway  here,  without  'em, 
Would  be  lonesomer,  and  shaded 
With  a  good  'eal  blacker  shadder 

Than  the  mornin'  glories  makes, 

And  the  sunshine  would  look  sadder 

For  their  good  old-fashion'  sakes. 

I  like  'em  'cause  they  kind  o' 

Sort  o'  make  a  feller  like  'em ; 
And  1  tell  you,  when  I  find  a 

Bunch  out  whur  the  sun  kin  strike  'em, 
It  allus  sets  me  thinkin' 

0'  the  ones  'at  used  to  grow, 
And  peek  in  thro'  the  chinkin' 
0'  the  cabin,  don't  you  know. 

And  then  I  think  o'  mother, 

And  how  she  used  to  love  'em, 
When  they  wuzn't  any  other, 
'Less  she  found  'em  up  above  'em ! 
And  her  eyes,  afore  she  shut  'em, 

Whispered  with  a  smile,  and  said, 
We  must  pluck  a  bunch  and  put  'em 
In  her  hand  when  she  wuz  dead. 

But,  as  I  wua  a  sayin', 

They  ain't  no  style  about  'em 
Very  gaudy  or  displaying 
But  I  wouldn't  be  without  'em, 
'Cause  I'm  happier  in  these  posiet 

And  the  hollyhawks  and  sich 
Than  the  hummin'-bird  'at  noses 
In  the  roses  of  the  rich. 
(126) 


A  NEST-EGG. 

BUT  a  few  miles  from  the  city  here,  and 
on  the  sloping  banks  of  the  stream  no 
ted  more  for  its  plenitude  of  "chubs"  and 
"shiners"  than  the  gamier  two  and  four- 
pound  bass  for  which,  in  season,  so  many 
credulous  anglers  flock  and  lie  in  wait,  stands 
a  country  residence,  so  convenient  to  the 
stream,  and  so  inviting  in  its  pleasant  exterior 
and  comfortable  surroundings — barn,  dairy 
and  spring-house — that  the  weary,  sunburnt 
and  disheartened  fisherman,  out  from  the 
dusty  town  for  a  day  of  recreation,  is  often 
wont  to  seek  its  hospitality.  The  house  in 
style  of  architecture  is  something  of  a  depart 
ure  from  the  typical  farm-house,  being  de 
signed  and  fashioned  with  no  regard  to  sym 
metry  or  proportion,  but  rather,  as  is  sug 
gested,  built  to  conform  to  the  matter-of-fact 
and  most  sensible  ideas  of  its  owner,  who,  if 
it  pleased  him,  would  have  small  windows 
where  large  ones  ought  to  be,  and  vice  versa, 
whether  they  balanced  properly  to  the  eye  or 
(127) 


128  A  NEST-EGG. 

not.  And  chimneys — he  would  have  as  many 
as  he  wanted,  and  no  two  alike,  in  either 
height  or  size.  And  if  he  wanted  the  front 
of  the  house  turned  from  all  possible  view,  as 
though  abashed  at  any  chance  of  public  scru 
tiny,  whv,  that  was  his  affair  and  not  the  pub 
lic's  ;  and,  with  like  perverseness,  if  he  chose 
to  thrust  his  kitchen  under  the  public's  very 
nose,  what  should  the  generally  fagged-out, 
half-famished  representative  of  that  dignified 
public  do  but  reel  in  his  dead  minnow,  shoul 
der  his  fishing-rod,  clamber  over  the  back 
fence  of  the  old  farm-house,  and  inquire 
within,  or  jog  back  to  the  city,  inwardly 
anathematizing  that  very  particular  locality, 
or  the  whole  rural  district  in  general.  That 
is  just  the  way  that  farm-house  looked  to  the 
writer  of  this  sketch  one  week  ago — so  indi 
vidual  it  seemed — so  liberal,  and  yet  so  inde 
pendent.  It  wasn't  even  weather-boarded, 
but,  instead,  was  covered  smoothly  with  some 
cement,  as  though  the  plasterers  had  come 
while  the  folks  were  visiting,  and  so,  unable 
to  get  at  the  interior,  had  just  plastered  the 
outside. 

I  am  more  than  glad  that  I  was  hungry 
enough,  and  weary  enough,  and  wise  enough 
to  take  the  house  at  its  first  suggestion ;  for, 
putting  away  my  fishing  tackle  for  the  morn- 


A   NEST-EGG. 


129 


ing,  at  least,  I  went  up  the  sloping  bank, 
crossed  the  dusty  road,  and  confidently  clam 
bered  over  the  fence. 

Not  even  a  growling  dog  to  intimate  that  I 
was  trespassing.  All  was  open  —  gracious- 
looking —  pastoral.  The  sward  beneath  my 
feet  was  velvet-like  in  elasticity,  and  the  scarce 
visible  path  I  followed  through  it  led  promptly 
to  the  open  kitchen  door.  From  within  I 
heard  a  woman  singing  some  old  ballad  in  an 
undertone,  while  at  the  threshold  a  trim,  white- 
spurred  rooster  stood  poised  on  one  foot,  curv 
ing  his  glossy  neck  and  cocking  his  wattled 
head  as  though  to  catch  the  meaning  of  the 
words.  I  paused.  It  was  a  scene  I  felt  re 
strained  from  breaking  in  upon,  nor  would  I, 
but  for  the  sound  of  a  strong  male  voice  com 
ing  around  the  corner  of  -the  house : 

"Sir;   howdy!" 

Turning,  I  saw  a  rough-looking  but  kindly- 
featured  man  of  sixty-five,  the  evident  owner 
of  the  place. 

I  returned  his  salutation  with  some  confu 
sion  and  much  deference.  "  I  must  really  beg 
your  pardon  for  this  intrusion,"  I  began,  "  but 
I  have  been  tiring  myself  out  fishing,  and 
your  home  here  looked  so  pleasant — and  I  felt 
so  thirsty — and — " 

9 


I3O  A    NEST-EGG. 

"Want  a  drink,  I  reckon,"  said  the  old 
man,  turning  abruptly  toward  the  kitchen 
door,  then  pausing  as  suddenly,  with  a  back 
ward  motion  of  his  thumb — "Jest  foller  the 
path  here  down  to  the  little  brick — that's  the 
spring — and  you'll  find  'at  you've  come  to  the 
right  place  fer  drinkin'-worter !  Hold  on  a 
minute  tell  I  git  you  a  tumbler — there're  nothin' 
down  there  but  a  tin." 

"  Then  don't  trouble  yourself  any  further," 
I  said  heartily,  "  for  I'd  rather  drink  from  a 
tin-cup  than  a  goblet  of  pure  gold." 

"And  so'd  I,"  said  the  old  man,  reflectively, 
turning  mechanically,  and  following  me  down 
the  path.  "  'Druther  drink  out  of  a  tin — er 
jest  a  fruit-can  with  the  top  knocked  off — er 
— er — er  a  gourd,"  he  added  in  a  zestful,  rem 
iniscent  tone  of  voice,  that  so  heightened  my 
impatient  thirst  I  reached  the  spring-house 
fairly  in  a  run. 

"Well — sir!"  exclaimed  my  host,  in  evi 
dent  delight,  as  I  stood  dipping  my  nose  in 
the  second  cupful  of  the  cool,  revivifying  liquid, 
and  peering  in  a  congratulatory  kind  of  way 
at  the  blurred  and  rubicund  reflection  of  my 
features  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup,  "well-sir, 
blame-don  !  ef  it  don't  do  a  feller  good  to  see 
you  enjoyin'  of  it  thataway !  But  don't  you 
drink  too  much  o'  the  worter  ! — 'cause  there  're 


A    NEST-EGG.  131 

some  sweet  milk  over  there  in  one  o'  them 
crocks,  maybe  ;  and  ef  you'll  jest,  kind  o' 
keerful-like,  lift  off  the  led  of  that  third  one, 
say,  over  there  to  your  left,  and  dip  you  out  a 
tinful  er  two  o'  that,  w'y,  it  '11  do  you  good  to 
drink  it,  and  it'll  do  me  good  to  see  you  at  it 
— but  hold  up  ! — hold  up  !"  he  called  abruptly, 
as,  nowise  loath,  I  bent  above  the  vessel  des 
ignated.  "Hold  yer  hosses  for  a  second  I 
Here's  Marthy  ;  let  her  git  it  fer  ye." 

If  I  was  at  first  surprised  and  confused, 
meeting  the  master  of  the  house,  I  was  wholly 
startled  and  chagrined  in  my  present  position 
before  its  mistress.  But  as  I  raised,  and  stam 
mered,  in  my  confusion,  some  incoherent  apol 
ogy,  I  was  again  reassured  and  put  at  greater 
ease  by  the  comprehensive  and  forgiving 
smile  the  woman  gave  me,  as  I  yielded  her 
my  place,  and,  with  lifted  hat,  awaited  her 
further  kindness. 

"I  came  just  in  time,  sir,"  she  said,  half 
laughingly,  as  with  strong,  bare  arms  she 
reached  across  the  gurgling  trough  and  re 
placed  the  lid  that  I  had  partially  removed. 
"  I  came  just  in  time,  I  see,  to  prevent  father 
from  having  you  dip  into  the  'morning's' 
milk,  which,  of  course,  has  scarcely  a  veil  of 
cream  over  the  face  of  it  as  yet.  But  men,  as 
you  are  doubtless  willing  to  admit,"  she  went 


132  A    NEST-EGG. 

on,  jocularly,  "  don't  know  about  these  things. 
You  must  pardon  father,  as  much  for  his  well- 
meaning  ignorance  of  such  matters,  as  for 
this  cup  of  cream,  which  I  am  sure  you  will 
better  relish." 

She  arose,  still  smiling,  with  her  eyes  turned 
frankly  on  my  own.  And  I  must  be  excused 
when  I  confess  that  as  I  bowed  my  thanksr 
taking  the  proffered  cup  and  lifting  it  to  my 
lips,  I  stared  with  an  uncommon  interest  and 
pleasure  at  the  donor's  face. 

She  was  a  woman  of  certainly  not  less  than 
forty  years  of  age.  But  the  figure,  and  the 
rounded  grace  and  fullness  of  it,  together 
with  the  features  and  the  eyes,  completed  as 
fine  a  specimen  of  physical  and  mental  health 
as  ever  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  meet ;  there 
was  something  so  full  of  purpose  and  resolve — 
something  so  wholesome,  too,  about  the  char 
acter — something  so  womanly — I  might  almost 
say  manly,  and  would,  but  for  the  petty  pre 
judice,  maybe  occasioned  by  the  trivial  fact 
of  a  locket  having  dropped  from  her  bosom  as 
she  knelt ;  and  that  trinket  still  dangles  in  my 
memory  even  as  it  then  dangled  and  dropped 
back  to  its  concealment  in  her  breast  as  she 
arose.  But  her  face,  by  no  means  handsome 
in  the  common  meaning,  was  marked  with  a 
breadth  and  strength  of  outline  and  expression 


A   NEST-EGG.  133 

that  approached  the  heroic — a  face  that  once 
seen  is  forever  fixed  in  memory — a  personage 
once  met  one  must  know  more  of.  And  so  it 
was,  that  an  hour  later,  as  I  strolled  with  the 
old  man  about  his  farm,  looking,  to  all  intents, 
with  the  profoundest  interest  at  his  Devon- 
shires,  Shorthorns,  Jerseys,  and  the  like,  I 
lured  from  him  something  of  an  outline  of  his 
daughter's  history. 

"  There're  no  better  girl  'n  Marthy !  "  he 
said,  mechanically  answering  some  ingenious 
allusion  to  her  worth.  "And,  yit,"  he  went 
on  reflectively,  stooping  from  his  seat  in  the 
barn-door,  and  with  his  open  jack-knife  pick 
ing  up  a  little  chip  with  the  point  of  the  blade 
— "  and  yit — you  wouldn't  believe  it — but 
Marthy  was  the  oldest  of  three  daughters, 
and  hed — I  may  say — hed  more  advantages 
o'  marryin' — and  yit,  as  I  was  jest  goin'  to 
say,  she's  the  very  one  'at  didn't  marry.  Hed 
every  advantage — Marthy  did.  W'y  we  even 
hed  her  educated — her  mother  was  a-livin' 
then — and  we  was  well  enough  fixed  to  afford 
the  educatin'  of  her,  mother  alms  contended 
— and  we  was — besides,  it  was  Marthy's  no 
tion,  too,  and  you  know  how  women  is  that- 
away  when  they  git  their  head  set.  So  we 
sent  Marthy  down  to  Indianapolus,  and  got 
her  books  and  put  her  in  school  there,  and 


134  A    NEST-EGG. 

paid  for  her  keepin'  and  everything,  and  she 
jest — well,  you  may  say,  lived  there  stiddy 
fer  better'n  four  year.  O'  course,  she'd  git 
back  ever  once-an-a-while,  but  her  visits  was 
allus,  some-way-another,  onsatisfactory-liker 
'cause,  you  see,  Marthy  was  allus  my  favor 
ite,  and  I'd  allus  laughed  and  told  her  'at  the 
other  girls  could  git  married  ef  they  wanted,, 
but  she  was  goin'  to  be  the  '  nest  egg '  of  our 
family,  and  'slong  as  I  lived  I  wanted  her  at 
home  with  me.  And  she'd  laugh  and  con 
tend  ut  she'd  as  lif  be  an  ole  maid  as  not,  and 
never  expected  to  marry,  ner  didn't  want  to. 
But  she  had  me  sceart  onc't,  though !  Come 
out  from  the  city  one  time,  durin'  the  army, with 
a  peart-looking  young  feller  in  blue  clothes 
and  gilt  straps  on  his  shoulders.  Young  lieu 
tenant  he  was — name  o'  Morris.  Was  layinr 
in  camp  there  in  the  city  somers.  I  disre- 
member  which  camp  it  was  now  adzackly — 
but  anyway,  it  'peared  like  he  had  plenty  o* 
time  to  go  and  come,  fer  from  that  time  on  he 
kep'  on  a-comin' — ever'  time  Marthy  ud  come 
home,  he'd  come,  too,  and  I  got  to  noticin* 
'at  Marthy  come  home  a  good  'eal  more'n  she 
used  to  afore  Morris  first  brought  her.  And 
blame  ef  the  thing  didn't  git  to  worryin'  me  I 
And  onc't  I  spoke  to  mother  about  it,  and 
told  her  ef  I  thought  the  feller  wanted  to  mar- 


A    NEST-EGG.  135 

ry  Marthy  I'd  jest  stop  his  comin'  right  then 
and  there.  But  mother  she  sort  o'  smiled  and 
said  somepin'  'bout  men  a-never  seein'  through 
nothin'  ;  and  when  I  ast  her  what  she  meant, 
w'y  she  ups  and  tells  me  at  Morris  didn't  keer 
nothin  fer  Marthy,  ner  Marthy  fer  Morris, 
and  then  went  on  to  tell  me  that  Morris  was 
kind  o'  aidgin'  up  tords  Annie — she  was  next 
to  Marthy,  you  know,  in  pint  of  years  and  ex 
perience,  but  ever'body  allus  said  'at  Annie 
was  the  purtiest  one  o'  the  whole  three  of 'em. 
And  so  when  mother  told  me  'at  the  signs 
pinted  tords  Annie,  w'y,  of  course,  I  hedn't 
no  particular  objections  to  that,  'cause  Morris 
was  of  good  family  enough  it  turned  out,  and, 
in  fact,  was  as  stirrin'  a  young  feller  as  ever 
I'd  want  for  a  son-in-law,  and  so  I  hed  nothin' 
more  to  say — ner  they  wasn't  no  occasion  to 
say  nothin',  'cause  right  along  about  then  I 
begin  to  notice  'at  Marthy  quit  comin'  home 
so  much,  and  Morris  kep'  a-comin'  more. 
Till  finally,  one  time  he  was  out  here  all  by 
his  self,  long  about  dusk,  come  out  here  where 
I  was  feedin',  and  ast  me,  all  at  onc't,  and  in 
a  straight-forard  way,  if  he  couldn't  marry 
Annie ;  and,  some-way-another,  blame  ef  it 
didn't  make  me  as  happy  as  him  when  I  told 
him  yes !  You  see  that  thing  proved,  pine- 
blank,  '9'.  he  wasn't  a-fishin'  round  for  Marthy, 


136  A   NEST-EGG. 

Well — sir,  as  luck  would  hev  it,  Marthy  got 
home  about  a  half  hour  later,  and  I'll  give 
you  my  word  I  was  never  so  glad  to  see  the 
girl  in  my  life  !  It  was  foolish  in  me,  I  reckon, 
but  when  I  see  her  drivin'  up  the  lane — it  was 
purt'  nigh  dark  then,  but  I  could  see  her 
through  the  open  winder  from  where  I  was 
settin"  at  the  supper  table,  and  so  I  jest  qui 
etly  excused  myself,  p'lite  like,  as  a  feller 
will,  you  know,  when  they's  comp'ny  'round, 
and  I  slipped  off  and  met  her  jest  as  she  was 
about  to  git  out  to  open  the  barn  gate.  "  Hold 
up,  Marthy,"  says  I ;  "  set  right  where  you 
air ;  I'll  open  the  gate  fer  you,  and  I'll  do 
anything  else  fer  you  in  the  world  'at  you 
want  me  to  !  " 

"  W'y,  what's  pleased  you  so?  "  she  says, 
laughin',  as  she  druv  slowly  through,  and  tick- 
lin'  my  nose  with  the  cracker  of  the  buggy- 
whip. 

"  Guess,"  says  I,  jerkin'  the  gate  to,  and 
turnin'  to  lift  her  out. 

"The  new  peanner's  come,"  says  she, 
eager-like. 

"  Yer  new  peanner's  come,"  says  I,  "but 
that's  not  it." 

"  Strawberries  for  supper?  "  says  she. 

"  Strawberries  for  supper,"  says  I ;  "  but 
that  ain't  it." 


A    NEST-EGG. 

Jest  then  Morris's  boss  whinnied  in  the 
barn,  and  she  glanced  up  quick  and  smilin' 
and  says,  "  Somebody  come  to  see  some 
body?" 

"  You're  a-gittin'  warm,"  says  I. 

"Somebody  come  to  see  me?"  she  says, 
anxious-like. 

"No,"  says  I,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it— fer 
this  one  'ats  come  wants  to  git  married,  and 
o'  course  I  wouldn't  harbor  in  my  house  no 
young  feller  'at  was  a-layin'  round  fer  a 
chance  to  steal  away  the  '  Nest-egg,'  "  says 
I,  laughin'. 

Marthy  had  riz  up  in  the  buggy  by  this 
time,  but  as  I  belt  up  my  hands  to  her,  she 
sort  o'  drawed  back  a  minute,  and  says,  all 
serious-like  and  kind  o'  whisperin' : 

"Is  it  Annie?" 

I  nodded.  "Yes,"  says  I,  and  what's 
more,  I've  give  my  consent,  and  mother's 
give  hern — the  thing's  all  settled.  Come, 
jump  out  and  run  in  and  be  happy  with  the 
rest  of  us  !  "  and  I  belt  out  my  hands  agin, 
but  she  didn't  'pear  to  take  no  heed.  She 
was  kind  o'  pale,  too,  I  thought,  and  swal- 
lered  a  time  or  two  like  as  ef  she  couldn't 
speak  plain. 

"  Who  is  the  man?  "  she  ast. 

"  Who — who's  the  man,"  I  says,  a-gittin' 


138  A   NEST-EGG. 

kind  o'  out  o'  patience  with  the  girl.  "  W'y» 
you  knew  who  it  is,  of  course.  It's  Morris," 
says  I.  "Come,  jump  down!  Don't  you 
see  I'm  waitin'  fer  you?  " 

"Then  take  me,"  she  says;  and  blame- 
don  !  ef  the  girl  didn't  keel  right  over  in  my 
arms  as  limber  as  a  rag  !  Clean  fainted  away  I 
Honest !  Jest  the  excitement,  I  reckon,  o' 
breakin'  it  to  her  so  suddent-like — 'cause  she 
liked  Annie — I've  sometimes  thought,  better'n 
even  she  did  her  own  mother.  Didn't  go  half 
so  hard  with  her  when  her  other  sister  mar 
ried.  Yes — sir?'  "  said  the  old  man,  by  way 
of  sweeping  conclusion,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet 
— "  Marthy's  the  on'y  one  of  'em  'at  never 
married — both  the  others  is  gone — Morris 
went  all  through  the  army  and  got  back  safe 
and  sound — 's  livin'  in  Idyho,  and  doin'  fust- 
rate.  Sends  me  a  letter  ever'  now  and  then. 
Got  three  little  chunks  o'  grand-children  out 
there,  and  never  laid  eyes  on  one  of  'em. 
You  see,  I'm  a-gittin'  to  be  quite  a  middle- 
aged  man — in  fact,  a  very  middle-aged  man, 
you  might  say.  Sence  mother  died,  which  has 
ben — lem-me-see — mother's  been  dead  somers 
in  the  neighborhood  o'  ten  year. — Sence 
mother  died  I've  ben  a-gettin'  more  and  more 
o'  Marthy's  notion — that  is,  you  couldn't  ever 
hire  me  to  marry  nobody !  and  them  has  al- 


A   NEST-EGG.  139 

ways  ben,  and  still  is  the  '  Nest-egg's'  views  I 
Listen  !  That's  her  a-callin'  for  us  now.  You 
must  sort  o'  overlook  the  freedom,  but  I  told 
Marthy  you'd  promised  to  take  dinner  with  us 
to-day,  and  it  'ud  never  do  to  disappint  her 
now.  Come  on."  And  ah!  it  would  have 
made  the  soul  of  you  either  rapturously  glad, 
or  madly  envious,  to  see  how  meekly  I  Con 
sented. 

I  am  always  thinking  that  I  never  tasted 
coffee  till  that  day ;  I  am  always  thinking  of 
the  crisp  and  steaming  rolls,  ored  over  with 
the  molten  gold  that  hinted  of  the  clover- 
fields,  and  the  bees  that  had  not  yet  permitted 
the  honey  of  the  bloom  and  the  white  blood  of 
the  stalk  to  be  divorced.  I  am  always  think 
ing  that  the  young  and  tender  pullet  we  happy 
three  discussed  was  a  near  and  dear  relative 
of  the  gay  Patrician  rooster  that  I  first 
caught  peering  so  inquisitively  in  at  the 
kitchen-door ;  and  I  am  always  —  always 
thinking  of  "  The  Nest-egg." 


TALE  OF  A  SPIDER. 


THE  BEETLE. 

The  shrilling  locust  slowly  sheathes 

His  dagger-voice,  and  creeps  away 
Beneath  the  brooding  leaves  where  breathes 

The  zephyr  of  the  dying  day  : 
One  naked  star  has  waded  through 
The  purple  shallows  of  the  night, 
And  faltering  as  falls  the  dew 
It  drips  its  misty  light. 
O'er  garden-blooms, 
On  tides  of  musk, 
The  beetle  booms  adown  the  gloomt 
And  bumps  along  the  dusk. 

The  katydid  is  rasping  at 

The  silence  from  the  tangled  broom: 
On  drunken  wings  the  flitting  bat 

Goes  staggering  athwart  the  gloom; 
The  toadstool  bulges  through  the  weeds, 

And  lavishly  to  left  and  right 
The  fire-flies,  like  golden  seeds. 
Are  sown  about  the  night. 
O'er  slumbrous  blooms, 

On  floods  of  musk, 
The  beetle  booms  adown  the  glooms, 
And  bumps  along  the  dusk. 

The  primrose  flares  its  baby-hands 
Wide  open,  as  the  empty  moon, 
Slow  lifted  from  the  underlands, 

Drifts  up  the  azure-arched  lagoon  / 
The  shadows  on  the  garden  walk 

Are  frayed  with  rifts  of  silver  light,' 
And,  trickling  down  the  poppy-stalk, 
The  dewdrop  streaks  the  night. 
O'er  folded  blooms, 

On  swirls  of  musk, 
The  beetle  booms  adown  the  glooms 
And  bumps  along  the  dusk.  (142) 


TALE  OF  A  SPIDER. 

FIRST —  I  want  it  most  distinctly  under 
stood  that  I  am  superstitious,  notwith 
standing  the  best  half  of  my  life,  up  to  the 
very  present,  has  been  spent  in  the  emphatic 
denial  of  that  fact.  And  I  am  painfully  aware 
that  this  assertion  at  so  late  a  date  can  but 
place  my  former  character  in  a  most  unenvia 
ble  light ;  yet  for  reasons  you  will  never  know 
I  have,  with  all  due  deliberation,  determined 
to  hold  the  truth  up  stark  and  naked  to  the 
world,  with  the  just  acknowledgment,  shorn 
of  all  attempt  at  palliation  or  excuse,  that  for 
the  best  half  of  my  life  I  have  been  simply  a 
coward  and  a  liar. 

Second — From  a  careful  and  impartial 
study  of  my  fellow-beings,  I  have  arrived  at 
the  settled  conviction  that  nine  men  of  every 
ten  are  just  as  superstitious  as  myself.  Yet, 
with  the  difference,  that,  for  reasons  I  know, 
they  refuse  to  openly  acknowledge  it,  many 
of  them  dodging  the  admission  even  within 
their  own  ever  curious  and  questioning  minds. 
(H3) 


144  TALE    OF   A    SPIDER. 

Third — Most  firmly  fixed  in  this  belief  and 
intuitively  certain  of  at  least  the  inner  con 
fidence  and  sympathy  of  a  grand  majority  of 
those  who  read,  I  throw  aside  all  personal 
considerations,  defy  all  ridicule — all  reason, 
if  you  like— for  the  purpose  wholly  to  devote 
myself  to  the  narration  of  an  actual  experi 
ence  that  for  three  long  weeks  has  been  occur 
ring  with  me  nightly  in  this  very  room.  You 
should  hear  me  laugh  about  it  in  the  day 
time  !  O,  I  snap  my  fingers  then,  and  whistle 
quite  as  carelessly  and  scornfully  as  you 
doubtless  would  ;  but  at  night — at  night — and 
it's  night  now — I  grow  very,  very  serious 
somehow,  and  put  all  raillery  aside,  and  all 
in  vain  here  argue  by  the  hour  that  it's  noth 
ing  in  the  world  but  the  baleful  imaginings  of 
a  feverish  mind,  and  the  convulsive  writhings 
of  a  dyspeptic  fancy.  But  enough!  —  Even 
forced  to  admit  that  I'm  a  fool,  I  will  tell  my 
story. 

Although  by  no  means  of  a  morbid  or  mis 
anthropic  disposition,  the  greater  portion  of 
my  time  I  occupy,  in  strict  seclusion,  here  at 
my  desk — for  only  when  alone  can  I  consci 
entiously  indulge  certain  propensities  of  think 
ing  aloud,  talking  to  myself,  leaping  from  my 
chair  occasionally  to  dance  a  new  thought 
round  the  room,  or  take  it  in  my  arms,  and 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  145 

hug,  and  hold,  and  love  it  as  I  would  a  great, 
fat,  laughing  baby  with  a  bunch  of  jingling 
keys. 

Then  there  are  times,  too,  when  worn  with 
work,  and  I  find  my  pen  dabbling  by  the  way 
side  in  sluggish  blots  of  ink,  that  I  delight  to 
take  up  the  old  guitar  which  leans  here  in  the 
corner,  and  twang  among  the  waltzes  that  I 
used  to  know,  or  lift  a  most  unlovely  voice  in 
half-forgotten  songs,  whose  withered  notes  of 
melody  fall  on  me  like  dead  leaves,  but  whose 
crisp  rustling  still  has  power  to  waken  from 
"the  dusty  crypt  of  darkened  forms  and  faces" 
the  glad  convivial  spirits  that  once  thronged 
about  me  in  the  wayward  past,  and  made  my 
young  life  one  long  peal  of  empty  merriment. 
Someway,  I've  lost  the  knack  of  wholesome 
laughter  now,  and  for  this  reason,  maybe,  I 
so  often  find  my  fingers  tangled  in  the  strings 
of  my  guitar,  for,  after  all,  there  is  an  in 
definable  something  in  the  tone  of  a  guitar 
that  is  not  all  of  earth.  I  have  often  fancied 
that  departed  friends  come  back  to  hide  them 
selves  away  in  this  old  husk  of  song  that  we 
might  pluck  them  forth  to  live  again  in  quav 
ering  tones  of  tenderness  and  love,  and  minor 
voices  of  remembrance  that  coax  us  on  to 
heaven.  Pardon  my  vagaries.  I'm  practical 
10 


146  TALE    OF   A   SPIDER. 

enough  at  times ;  at  times  I  fail.  But  I  must 
be  clear  to-night ;  I  must  be,  and  I  will. 

This  night  three  weeks  ago  I  had  worked 
late,  though  on  a  task  involving  nothing  that 
could  possibly  have  warped  my  mind  to  an 
unnatural  state  other  than  that  of  peculiar 
wakefulness  ;  for  although  physically  needful 
of  rest,  I  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  retire  ;  and 
so  I  wheeled  my  sofa  in  a  cozy  position  near 
the  stove,  lighted  a  cigar  (my  chum  had  left 
me  four  hours  previous),  and  flinging  myself 
down  in  languid  pose  best  suiting  the  require 
ments  of  an  aimless  reverie,  I  resigned  all  se 
rious  complexities  of  thought  and  was  wholly 
comfortable. 

The  silence  of  the  night  without  was  deep. 
Not  a  footstep  in  the  street  below,  and  not  a 
sound  of  any  living  earthly  thing  fell  on  the 
hearing,  though  that  sense  was  whetted  to 
such  acuteness  I  could  plainly  hear  the  tick 
ing  of  a  clock  somewhere  across  the  street. 

All  things  about  the  room  were  in  their 
usual  order.  My  letters  on  the  desk  were 
folded  as  I  answered  them,  and  filed  away; 
my  books  were  ranged  in  order,  and  my 
manuscripts  tucked  out  of  sight  and  mind, 
and  no  scrap  of  paper  to  remind  me  of  my 
never-ended  work,  save  the  blank  sheet  that 
always  lies  in  readiness  for  me  to  pounce  up- 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  147 

on  with  any  vagrant  thought  that  comes  along, 
and  close  beside  it  the  open  inkstand  and  the 
idle  pen. 

I  had  reclined  thus  in  utter  passiveness  of 
mind  for  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  when  sud 
denly  I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  below  me 
in  the  street,  the  sound  of  some  stringed  in 
strument.  I  rose  up  on  my  elbow  and  listened. 
Some  serenader,  I  guessed.  Yes,  I  could 
hear  it  faintly,  but  so  far  away  it  seemed,  and 
indistinct,  I  was  uncertain.  I  arose,  went  to 
the  window,  raised  it  and  leaned  out ;  but  as 
the  sound  grew  fainter  and  failed  entirely,  I 
closed  the  window  and  sat  down  again ;  but 
even  as  I  did  so  the  mysterious  tones  fell  on 
my  hearing  plainer  than  before.  I  listened 
closely,  and  though  little  more  than  a  ghost 
of  sound,  I  still  could  hear,  and  quite  audibly 
distinguish  the  faint  repeated  twanging  of  the 
six  open  strings  of  a  guitar — so  plainly,  indeed, 
that  I  instinctively  recognized  the  irritating 
fact  that  both  the  "E"  and  "D"  strings 
were  slightly  out  of  tune.  I  turned  with  some 
strange  impulse  to  my  own  instrument,  and  I 
must  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  the  cold 
thrill  of  surprise  and  fear  that  crept  over  me 
as  the  startling  conviction  slowly  dawned  up 
on  my  mind  that  the  sounds  came  from  that 
unlocked  for  quarter.  The  guitar  was  lean- 


148  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

ing  in  its  old  position  in  the  corner,  the  face 
turned  to  the  wall,  and  although  I  confess  it 
with  reluctance,  full  five  minutes  elapsed  be 
fore  I  found  sufficient  courage  to  approach 
and  pick  it  up,  then  I  came  near  dropping 
it  in  abject  terror  as  a  great,  fat,  blowsy 
spider  ran  across  my  hand  and  went  scamper 
ing  up  the  wall.  What  do  you  think  of 
spiders,  anyhow?  You  say  "  Wooh  !  "  I  say 
you  don't  know  anything  about  spiders. 

I  examined  first  the  wall  to  see  if  there 
might  not  be  some  natural  cause  for  the  mys 
terious  sounds ;  some  open  crevice  for  the 
wind ;  some  loosened  and  vibrating  edge  of 
paper,  or  perhaps  a  bristle  protruding  from 
the  plaster ;  but  I  found  no  evidence  that 
could  in  any  wav  afford  an  answer  to  the  per 
plexing  query.  An  old  umbrella  and  a  broom 
stood  in  the  corner,  but  in  neither  of  these 
inanimate  objects  could  I  find  the  vaguest 
explanation  of  the  problem  that  so  wholly 
and  entirely  possessed  me. 

I  could  not  have  been  mistaken.  It  wras  no- 
trick  of  fancy — no  hallucination.  I  had  not 
only  listened  to  the  sounds  repeated  over  a 
dozen  times  at  least,  but  I  had  recognized  and 
measured  the  respective  value  of  the  tones, 
and  as  I  turned,  half  in  awe,  took  up  the  in 
strument  and  lightly  swept  the  strings,  the 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  140 

positive  proof,  for  the  conviction  jarred  as  dis 
cordantly  upon  my  fancy  as  upon  my  ears. 
The  two  strings,  "  E"  and  "  D,"  were  out  of 
tune.  I  will  no  longer  attempt  the  detail  of 
perturbed  state  of  curiosity,  and  the  almost 
dazed  condition  of  my  mind ;  such  an  effort 
would  at  best  be  vain.  But  I  sat  down,  dog 
gedly,  at  last,  and  in  a  spirit  of  indifference 
the  most  defiant  I  could  possibly  assume,  I 
ran  the  guitar  up  to  a  keen,  exultant  key,  and 
dashed  off  in  a  quickstep  that  made  the  dumb 
old  echoes  of  the  room  leap  up  and  laugh 
with  melody.  I  was  determined  in  my  own 
mind  to  stave  off  the  most  unwholesome  influ 
ence  that  seemed  settling  fog-like  over  me ; 
and  as  the  sharp  twang  of  the  strings  rang 
out  upon  the  night,  and  the  rich  vibrating 
chords  welled  up  and  overflowed  the  silence 
like  a  flood,  the  embers  of  old-time  enthusi 
asm  kindled  in  my  heart  and  flamed  up  in  a 
warmth  of  real  delight.  Suddenly,  in  the 
midst  of  this  rapturous  outburst,  as  with  lifted 
face  I  stared  ceilingward,  my  eyes  again  fell 
on  that  horrid  spicier,  madly  capering  about 
the  wall  in  a  little  circumference  of  a  dozen 
inches,  perhaps,  wheeling  and  whirling  up 
and  down,  and  round  and  round  again,  as 
though  laboring  under  some  wild,  jubilant 
excitement. 


I5O  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

I  played  on  mechanically  for  a  moment,  my 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  grotesque  antics  of  the 
insect,  feeling  instinctively  that  the  music  was 
producing  this  singular  effect  upon  it.  I  was 
right;  for,  as  I  gradually  paused,  the  gyra 
tions  of  the  insect  assumed  a  milder  phase, 
and  as  I  ceased  entirely  the  great,  bloated 
thing  ran  far  out  overhead  and  dropped  sud 
denly  a  yard  below  the  ceiling,  and,  pendant 
by  its  unseen  thread,  hung  sprawled  in  the 
empty  air  above  my  face,  so  near  I  could 
have  touched  it  with  the  lifted  instrument. 
And  then,  even  as  I  shrank  back  fearfully,  a 
new  line  of  speculation  was  suggested  to  my 
mind  ;  I  arose  abruptly,  leant  the  guitar  back 
in  the  corner,  took  up  a  book  and  sat  down  at 
the  desk,  leaving  the  silence  of  the  room  in 
tensified  till  in  my  nervous  state  of  mind  I 
almost  fancied  I  could  hear  that  spider  whis 
pering  to  itself,  as  above  the  open  pages  of  the 
book  I  watched  the  space  between  it  and  the 
ceiling  slowly  widening,  till  at  last  the  ugly 
insect  dropped  and  disappeared  behind  the 
sofa. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait ;  nor  was  my  curious 
mind  placed  any  more  at  ease,  when,  at  last, 
faint  and  far-off  sounding  as  at  first,  I  heard 
the  eerie  twanging  of  the  guitar — though  this 
time  I  could  with  some  triumphant  pleasure 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  151 

note  the  fact  that  the  instrument  was  in  per 
fect  tune.  But  to  thoroughly  assure  myself 
that  I  could  in  no  way  be  mistaken  as  to  the 
mysterious  cause,  I  arose  and  crept  cautiously 
across  the  carpet  until  within  easy  reach  of 
the  guitar.  I  paused  again  to  listen  and  con 
vince  myself  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  sounds 
were  there  produced.  There  could  possibly 
be  no  mistake  about  it.  Then  suddenly  I 
caught  and  whirled  the  instrument  around, 
and  as  I  did  so  the  spider  darted  from  the 
key-board  near  the  top,  leaped  to  the  broom- 
handle  and  fled  up  the  wall.  I  tried  no  more 
experiments  that  night,  or  rather  morning — 
for  it  must  have  been  three  o'clock  as  I  turned 
wearily  away  from  the  exasperating  contem 
plation  of  the  strange  subject,  turned  down 
the  lamp,  then  turned  it  up  again,  huddled 
myself  into  a  shivering  heap  upon  the  sofa, 
and  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  in  which  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  a  spider  of  Brobdingna- 
gian  prcportions,  and  lived  on  men  and  women 
instead  of  flies,  and  had  a  web  like  a  monster 
hammock,  in  which  I  swung  myself  out  over 
the  streets  at  night  and  fished  up  my  prey 
with  a  hook  and  line ;  thought  I  caught  more 
poets  than  anything  else,  and  was  just  nib 
bling  warily  at  my  own  bait,  when  the  line 
was  suddenly  withdrawn,  the  hook  catching 


152  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

me  in  the  cheek,  tearing  out  and  letting  me 
drop  back  with  a  sullen  plunge  into  the  great 
gulf  of  the  night.  And  as  I  found  myself, 
with  wildly-staring  eyes,  sitting  bolt  upright  on 
the  sofa,  I  saw  the  spider,  just  above  my 
desk,  lifted  and  flung  upward  by  his  magic 
line  and  thrown  among  the  dusky  shadows  of 
the  ceiling. 

"Hays,"  said  I  to  my  chum,  in  the  early 
morning,  as  he  came  in  upon  me,  sitting  at  my 
desk,  and  gazing  abstractedly  at  an  inco 
herent  scrawl  of  ink  upon  the  scrap  of  paper 
lying  before  me;  "  Haj^s,"  said  I,  "what's 
your  opinion  of  spiders?" 

"What's  my  opinion  of  spiders?"  he  reit 
erated,  staring  at  me  curiously. 

"What's  your  opinion  of  spiders?"  I  re 
peated  with  my  first  inflection — for  Hays  is  a 
young  man  in  the  medical  profession,  and 
likes  point,  fact,  and  brevity.  "  What  I  mean 
is  this,"  I  continued  ;  "  isn't  it  generally  con 
ceded  that  the  spider  is  endowed  with  a  higher 
order  of  intelligence  than  insects  commonly?" 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  replied,  with  the  same 
curious  air,  watching  me  narrowly;  "I  have 
a  vague  recollection  of  some  incident  illustra 
tive  of  that  theory  in  Goldsmith's  Animated 
Nature,  or  some  equally  veracious  chronicle," 
with  suggestive  emphasis  on  the  word  "  vera- 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  153 

clous."  "Why  do  you  ask?"  And,  although 
half  assured  I  would  be  sneered  at  for  my 
pains,  I  went  into  a  minute  recountal  of  my 
strange  experience  of  the  night,  winding  up 
in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  doubtless  inten 
sified  by  the  blandly-smiling  features  of  my 
auditor,  who  made  no  interruption  whatever, 
and  only  looked  at  me  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
dream  with  gratuitous  compassion  and  con 
cern.  "Well !"  said  I,  uneasily,  taking  an  im 
patient  turn  or  two  across  the  room.  "Well !" 
I  repeated,  pausing  abruptly  and  glaring  at 
the  shrugged  shoulders  of  my  stoical  com 
panion,  "  why  don't  you  say  something?  " 

"  Nothing  to  say,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
turning  on  me  with  absolute  severity.  "You 
never  listen  to  advice.  Two  months  ago  I 
told  you  to  quit  this  night  business  —  it  would 
wreck  you  physically,  mentally,  every  way. 
Why,  look  at  you !  "  he  continued  in  pitiless 
reproof,  as  I  flew  off  on  another  nervous  trip 
around  the  room.  "Look  at  you!  a  perfect 
crate  of  bones — no  '  get-up '  in  your  walk — no 
color  in  your  face — no  appetite — no  anything 
but  a  wisp  of  shattered  nerves,  and  a  pair  of 
howling-hungry  eyes  that  do  nothing  else  but 
stare." 

"  It  wouldn't  seem  that  you  did  have  much 
to  say,  upon  the  point,  at  least,"  I  interrupted. 


154  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

"Never  mind  my  physical  condition;  what 
do  you  think  of  my  spider?" 

"  What  do  I  think  of  your  spider !  "  he  re 
peated  contemptuously,  "  why  I  think  it's  a 
little  the  thinnest  piece  of  twaddle  I  ever 
listened  to — and  I  think,  further " 

"Hold  on,  now!"  I  exclaimed,  a  trifle 
warmed,  but  smiling,  "I  knew  you'd  have  to 
sweat  awhile  over  that,  but  hold  on — hold  on  ! 
I  have  only  told  you  the  minor  facts  of  the 
strange  occurrence,  the  most  startling  and  ir 
refutable  portion  yet  remains.  Now,  listen  ! 
What  I  have  already  told  you  I  pledge  you 
on  my  honor  is  pure  truth.  I  can  offer  noth 
ing  but  my  word  for  that.  But  I  will  close 
now — don't  interrupt  me  if  you  please :  As 
I  awakened  from  that  dream,  I  saw  that 
spider  jerked  from  above  the  desk  here — just 
as  a  small  boy  might  whip  up  a  fish  line — 
jerked  by  his  own  thread,  of  course.  Well, 
and  I  got  up  at  once — came  to  the  desk  like 
this,  feeling  instinctively  that  that  infernal 
spider  had  some  object  in  lowering  itself 
among  my  letters ;  and  I  found  this  scrap 
of  paper,  which  I'll  swear  I  left  last  night 
without  one  blot  or  line  of  ink  or  pencil  on  it. 
I  found  this  scrap  of  paper  with  this  zigzag 
line — which  you  can  see  was  never  made  with 

J 

human  hand — scrawled  across  it,  and  the  ink 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

was  yet  wet  when  I  picked  it  up.  Now,  what 
do  you  say?" 

He  took  the  scrap  of  paper  in  his  hand  half 
curiously,  and  then,  as  though  ashamed  of 
having  betrayed  so  great  a  weakness,  threw 
it  back  upon  the  desk  with  scarce  a  look. 

"What  do  you  say?"  I  repeated  in  a  tone 
of  triumph. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  barely  possible 
you  did  see  a  spider  in  this  last  instance,  and 
I  must  confess  that  it  is  a  much  easier  matter 
for  me  to  imagine  a  spider  dropping  by  acci 
dent  into  your  inkstand  and  leaving  the  trail 
of  his  salvation  across  your  writing  paper,  than 
it  is  for  me  to  fancy  the  fantastic  insect  pluck 
ing  the  strings  of  your  guitar.  In  fact,  the 
first  part  of  your  story  won't  do  at  all.  I  don't 
mean  to  intimate  that  your  veracity  is  defec 
tive — not  at  all.  But  I  do  mean  that  you  have 
overworked  yourself  of  late,  and  that  your 
brain  needs  rest." 

"  But,"  said  I,  pushing  the  scrap  of  paper 
toward  him  again,  "  you  don't  seem  to  recog 
nize  the  fact  that  that  ugly  scrawl  of  ink  means 
something.  Look  at  it  carefully  ;  it's  writing." 

He  again  took  the  paper  in  his  hand,  but 
this  time  without  a  glance,  and  ere  I  could 
prevent  him  he  had  torn  it  in  a  half  dozen 
pieces  and  flung  it  on  the  floor. 


156  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  I  cried,  resentfully, 
springing  forward. 

"  Why,  I  mean  that  you're  a  babbling  idi 
ot,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  half  anger,  half 
alarm  ;  "  and  if  you  won't  look  after  your  own 
condition  I'll  do  it  for  you,  and  in  spite  of  you  ! 
You  must  quit  this  work — quit  this  room — quit 
everything,  and  come  with  me  out  in  the  fresh 
air  for  awhile,  or  you'll  die ;  that's  what  I 
mean !  " 

Although  he  spoke  with  almost  savage  ve 
hemence,  I  recognized,  of  course,  the  real 
promptings  of  his  action,  and  smiled  softly  to 
myself  as  I  gathered  up  the  scattered  scraps  of 
paper  from  the  carpet. 

"  Oh,  we'll  not  quarrel,"  said  I,  seating 
myself  patiently  at  the  desk,  and  dipping  my 
finger  in  the  paste-cup,  "  we'll  not  quarrel 
about  a  little  thing  like  this  ;  only  if  you'll  just 
wait  a  minute  I'll  show  you  that  it  does  mean 
something." 

"There!"  said  I,  good-naturedly,  when  I 
had  deftly  joined  the  fragments  in  their  proper 
places  on  a  base  of  legal  cap  ;  "  now  you  can 
read  it ;  but  don't  tear  it  again,  please."  I 
think  I  was  very  white  when  I  said  that,  for 
my  companion  took  the  paper  in  his  hand  with 
at  least  a  show  of  interest,  and  looked  at  it 
long  and  curiously. 


TALE    OF   A   SPIDER.  157 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  "  he  asked,  laying  it  back 
upon  the  desk  before  me  ;  "  I  am  really  very 
sorry,  but  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge  that  I 
fail  to  find  anything  exactly  tangible  in  it." 

"Look,"  said  I ;  "  you  see  this  capital  that 
begins  the  line;  the  first  letter?  It's  a  'Y,' 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  looks  a  little  like  a  « Y '  or  a  <G.' " 

"  No  ;  it's  a  '  Y,'  "  said  I,  "  and  there's  no 
more  doubt  about  it  than  that  this  next  one  is 
an  <e.'" 

"Well—" 

"Well,  this  next  letter  is  an  's' — an  old- 
fashioned  '  s,'  but  it's  an  '  s '  all  the  same,  and 
you  can't  make  anything  else  out  of  it ;  I've 
tried  it,  and  it  can't  be  done." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"  This  is  a  '  c,'  "  I  continued. 

"  Go  on  ;  call  it  anything  you  like." 

"  No  ;  but  I  wart  you  to  be  thoroughly  sat 
isfied." 

"Oh,  do  you?  Well,  it's  a  « c,'  then;  go 
on." 

"And  this  is  an  «  h.'" 

"Go  on." 

"And  this  is  an  '  o'  ;  you  know  that !  " 

"  Yes  ;  know  it  by  the  hole  in  it." 

"  Don't  get  funny.     And  this  is  an  « 1.' " 

"That's  an  <!.'" 


158  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

"This  is  an  'a.'" 

"  Close  observer  !  " 

"And  that's  an  '  r  '— and  that's  all." 

"Well,  you've  got  it  all  down  to  suit  you  ; 
now,  what  does  it  spell?" 

"What  does  it  spell?  Why,  can't  you 
read?"  I  exclaimed,  flourishing  the  scrap  tri 
umphantly  before  his  eyes.  "It  spells  'Ye 
scholar!' — why,  I  could  read  it  across  the 
room ! " 

"  Yes,  or  across  the  street,"  he  answered 
caustically.  "  But  come  now  !"  he  continued 
seriously,  "  throw  it  aside  for  the  present  at 
least,  and  let's  go  out  in  the  sunshine  for  a 
while.  Here,  light  a  cigar,  and  come  along  ;" 
and  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"No,"  said  I,  turning  to  the  mysterious 
scrawl,  "  I  shall  hound  this  thing  down  while 
the  inspiration's  on  me." 

"  Inspiration? — Bah  !"  The  door  slammed 
but  I  never  turned  my  head. 

I  had  sat  thus  in  dead  silence  for  ten  min 
utes,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  quick,  impa 
tient  movement  at  my  back,  and  then  the 
sharp,  impetuous  words — "In  God's  name  I 
quit  biting  your  nails  like  that !  Don't  you 
know  it's  an  indication  of  madness  !  " 

I  think  I  need  not  enter  into  any  explana 
tion  as  to  the  reason  which,  from  that  moment, 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  159 

determined  me  upon  a  course  that  could  afford 
no  further  conflict  of  opinion  other  than  that 
already  going  on  within  my  own  mind.  That 
of  itself  furnished  all  exasperating  controversy 
that  I  felt  was  well  for  my  indulgence.  Though 
in  one  sense  I  was  grateful  for  the  pointed  sug 
gestion  of  my  friend  regarding  the  question 
able  status  of  my  mental  faculties,  and  by  it 
was  made  most  keenly  alive  to  that  peculiar 
sense  of  duty  that  made  me  look  upon  myself, 
and  question  every  individual  act,  entirely 
separated  from  my  own  personality ;  in  fact, 
to  look  upon  myself,  as  I  did,  clearly  and  dis 
tinctly  defined  in  the  light  of  a  very  suspicious 
and  a  very  dangerous  character,  whose  sole 
intent  and  purpose  was  to  play  and  practice 
upon  me  all  unlooked-for  and  undreamed-of 
deceptions,  and  which,  to  successfully  combat, 
must  needs  require  the  most  rigid  and  unwav 
ering  strength  of  reason. 

In  further  justice  to  my  honesty  in  this  re 
solve,  I  will  say  that  I  at  once  began  the  ex 
ercise  of  systematic  habits.  Although  by  no 
means  pleasant,  I  took  long  rambles  in  the 
country  ;  ate  regularly  of  wholesome  food,  re 
gained  my  appetite,  and  retired  at  night  at 
seasonable  hours.  I  will  not  say  that  sleep 
came  sooner  to  my  eyes  by  reason  of  the 
change,  but  I  wooed  sleep,  anyway — let  this 


l6o  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

suffice.  I  threw  smoking  entirely  aside — not 
a  hard  trial  for  me  by  any  means,  although  an 
occasional  cigar  is  a  great  pleasure ;  but  I 
threw  it  aside.  Did  not  study  so  intensely  as 
had  been  my  wont ;  read  but  little,  and  wrote 
less — even  neglecting  my  letters  ;  yet,  with  all 
this  revolution  of  reform,  I  am  left  to  confess 
that  I  never  for  one  waking  moment  forgot 
the  mystic  legend,  "Ye  Scholar,"  or  its 
equally  incomprehensible  author ;  and  how 
could  I? 

Since  the  first  discovery  of  the  strange  in 
sect  and  its  musical  proclivities,  but  three 
evenings  alone  have  passed  that  I  have  not 
been  favored  with  its  most  extraordinary  per 
formances  on  the  guitar.  In  this  way  has  its 
presence  been  usually  made  known.  And 
noting  carefully,  as  I  have  done,  the  peculiar 
times  and  conditions  of  its  coming,  together 
with  such  other  suggestions  as  the  surround 
ings  have  afforded  me,  I  am  led  to  believe 
that  the  spider  reasoned  as  a  man  would  rea 
son.  In  no  instance  yet  has  it  ever  touched 
the  instrument  when  I  sat  busy  at  my  desk, 
and  only  when  my  pen  was  idle  in  my  hand, 
or  I  had  turned  wearily  away  to  pace  about 
the  room,  has  it  ever  exhibited  any  inclination 
whatever  to  occupy  my  attention.  This  curi 
ous  fact  interpreted  itself  at  last  in  the  rather 


TALE    OF   A   SPIDER.  l6l 

startling  proposition  that  it  was  simply  an  in 
dication  on  the  part  of  the  insect  that  it  de 
sired  me  to  favor  it  with  music,  since  my  time 
was  not  better  occupied.  Virtually  this  is 
what  it  did  mean ;  I  know  it ;  I  would  know 
and  appreciate  now  any  want  the  insect  might 
choose  to  express  ;  only  at  first  I  was  very 
dull,  as  one  would  be  naturally.  And  I  no 
ticed,  too,  that  when  I  first  responded  to 
this  summons,  the  spider  would  leap  from 
the  guitar  to  the  wall  with  every  evidence  of 
pleasure,  and  glide  back  to  its  old  position 
near  the  ceiling,  indulging  the  wildest  tokens 
of  glee  and  approval  throughout  my  perform 
ances.  And  many  times  I  have  marched  off 
round  and  round  the  room  simply  thrumming 
the  time,  the  spider  following  along  the  upper 
margin  of  the  wall  with  the  most  fantastic 
caperings  of  joy. 

Other  experiments  followed,  too  numerous 
and  too  foolish  for  recountal  here,  but  each, 
in  its  way,  sufficient  to  more  conclusively  es 
tablish  in  my  mind  the  belief  that  the  hideous 
little  monster  was  endowed  with  an  intelli 
gence  as  wise  and  subtle  in  its  workings  as 
was  within  the  power  of  my  own  to  recognize 
— even  greater — for  gradually,  as  we  became 
more  accustomed  to  each  other,  the  ugly  in- 
ii 


l62  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

sect  grew  so  tame  it  would  come  down  the 
wall  and  dance  for  me  on  a  level  with  my  face 
as  I  sat  playing,  and  even  spring  off  upon  the 
instrument  if  I  held  it  out.  I  found  my  mind 
so  baffled  and  bewildered  at  last  that  more 
than  once  the  conviction  has  been  forced  upon 

me  that  the  spider  was  not  a  spider,  but  a ; 

no,  I'll  not  say  that,  not  yet,  not  yet ! 

These  experiments  had  progressed  for  per 
haps  half  a  dozen  nights,  when,  one  evening 
as  I  sat,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  desk  here,  mechan 
ically  poring  over  the  still  incomprehensible 
meaning  of  the  scrawl,  and  writing  and  re 
writing  the  two  words  over  and  over  again 
upon  an  empty  page  before  me,  I  became 
suddenly  aware  of  a  strange  sensation  of  re 
pose.  A  great,  cool  quiet  fell  upon  my  brain, 
as  when  suddenly  within  some  noisy  foundry 
the  clanging  hammers  cease  to  beat,  and  all 
the  brazen  tumult  drops  like  a  plummet  into 
silence  fathomless.  I  felt  a  soothing  languor 
flowing  down  and  over  me,  and  ebbing 
through  and  through  my  very  being.  It  was 
not  drowsiness  ;  my  eyelids  were  not  heavy, 
nor  did  they  droop  the  shadow  of  a  shade.  I 
saw  everything  about  me  as  clearly  as  I  do 
this  very  moment — only,  I  did  not  seem  a  part 
of  my  surroundings.  My  eyes,  although 
conscious  of  all  objects  within  range,  were 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  163 

fixed  upon  the  scrap  of  paper  headed  by  the 
zigzag  scrawl,  and  with  an  intensity  of  gaze 
that  seemed  to  pierce  the  paper  and  to  see 
through  it  and  beyond  it ;  and  I  did  not  think 
it  strange.  I  was  dimly  conscious,  too,  of 
being  under  the  control  'of  some  hitherto  un 
dreamed  of  influence,  but  I  felt  no  thought  of 
resistance — rather  courted  the  sensation.  All 
was  utter  calm  with  me  ;  and  I  did  not  think 
it  strange.  I  saw  my  hand  held  out  before 
me  in  this  same  position — the  forearm  resting 
on  the  desk — the  same  pen  grasped  lightly  in 
my  fingers.  Slowly — slowly — slowly — I  saw 
the  spider  lowering  itself  above  it,  wavering 
and  swaying  in  the  air,  until,  at  last,  I  saw  it 
reach  its  dangling  legs  and  clutch  and  cling 
to  the  penholder  at  the  tip,  and  rest  there ; 
and  I  did  not  think  it  strange.  But  I  grew 
duller  then,  and  very  chilly,  though  I  vividly 
recall  seeing  the  hand  moved — not  of  my  own 
volition — the  pen  dipped  in  the  ink,  and 
brought  directly  over  the  old  scrap  whereon 
the  scrawl  was  traced,  and  I  remember, 
too,  that  as  I  watched  the  motion  of  my  hand, 
I  still  saw  beyond  the  surface  of  the  paper, 
and  read  the  very  words  my  pen  traced  after 
ward.  I  say  the  words  my  pen  traced — or 
my  hand — either — both — for  the  act  was  not 
my  own,  I  swear !  And  the  spider  still  sat 


164  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

perched  there  at  his  post,  rocked  lightly  with 
the  motion  of  the  pen,  with  all  his  arms- 
hugged  round  him  as  though  chuckling  to 
himself,  and  I  say  to  you  again,  and  yet- 
again,  I  did  not  think  it  strange. 

Not  until  the  page  before  me  had  been  filled 
did  I  regain  my  natural  state  of  being,  nor 
did  it  seem  that  I  then  would,  had  not  the  spi 
der  quitted  his  position  and  run  down  the  pen 
holder,  leaning  from  it  for  an  instant,  touch 
ing  and  pressing  my  naked  hand  ;  then  I  was 
conscious  of  a  keen,  exquisite  sting,  and  with 
a  quick,  spasmodic  motion,  I  flung  the  hid 
eous  insect  from  it.  As  I  lifted  my  white  face 
and  starting  eyes,  I  saw  the  spider  wildly  clam 
bering  toward  the  ceiling  on  its  invisible 
thread,  and  then,  with  a  mingled  sense  of  fearr 
bewilderment  and  admiration,  as  oppressive 
and  as  strange  as  indescribable,  I  turned  to 
the  mysterious  scrap  and  read,  traced  trem 
blingly,  but  plainly,  in  a  dainty,  flowing  hand, 
unlike  any  I  had  ever  seen  before,  the  lines  I 
now  copy  from  the  original  script  before  me,, 
bearing  the  pedantic  title  of  "Ye  Scholar:  '* 

"Ho  I  ho!  Ye  scholar  recketh  not  how  lean 
His  lank  frame  waxeth  in  ye  hectic  gloom 
That  smeareth  o'er  ye  dim  walls  of  his  room 
His  wavering  shadow!     Shut  is  he,  I  ween, 
Like  as  a  withered  nosegay,  in  between 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  165 

Ye  musty,  mildewed  leaves  of  some  volume 
Of  ancient  lore  ye  moths  and  he  consume 

In  jointure.     Yet  a  something  in  his  mien 
Forbids  all  mockery,  though  quaint  is  he, 

And  eke  fantastical  in  form  and  face 
As  that  Old  Knight  ye  tale  of  chivalry 

Made  mad  immortally,  yet  spared  ye  grace 
Of  some  rare  virtue  which  we  sigh  to  see, 
And  pour  our  laughter  out  most  tenderly." 

Over  and  over  I  read  the  strange  production 
to  myself;  and,  as  at  last  I  started  to  my  feet 
repeating  it  aloud,  all  suddenly  the  spider 
swooped  on  its  flying  thread  before  my  up 
turned  face,  swung  back  upon  the  margin  of 
the  wall,  and  went  scampering  round  and 
round  above  me  as  I  read. 

I  did  not  sleep  two  hours  of  the  night,  but 
•mouthed  and  mouthed  that  sonnet — even  in 
my  scrappy  dreams — until  when  morning 
strained  the  sunlight  through  the  slatted  win- 
•dow-blinds,  I  turned  and  dragged  myself 
from  the  room,  like  an  old,  old  man,  with 
childish  summer  fancies  in  his  head  and  bleak 
and  barren  winter  in  his  bones. 

The  night  following,  and  the  next  night, 
and  the  next,  I  did  not  permit  myself  to  enter 
my  room  after  dark — not  from  a  sense  of  fear, 
but  simply  because  I  felt  my  mind  was  becom 
ing  too  entirely  engrossed  with  the  contem- 


1 66  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

plation  of  a  theme  that,  even  yet  at  times,  I 
feared  was  more  chimera  than  reality. 

Throughout  the  day  I  worked,  as  usual 
with  me,  perhaps  three  hours,  at  such  trivial 
tasks  as  required  only  the  lightest  mental  ef 
fort  ;  nor  did  I  allow  my  mind  to  wander  from 
the  matter-of-fact  duties  before  me  to  the  con 
templation  of  the  ever-present  topic  that  so- 
confounded  it  when  studiously  dwelt  upon. 
Only  once  in  this  long  abstinence  from  the 
fascinating  problem  did  I  catch  sight  of  the 
spider,  peering  down  upon  me  from  behind 
the  shoulder  of  the  little  terra  cotta  bust  of 
Dickens  that  sits  on  a  dusty  bracket  just 
above  my  desk.  I  looked  up  at  the  little  fel 
low  with  a  smile,  rose  to  my  feet,  and  held 
out  my  hand,  when,  at  the  motion,  the  insect 
cowered  trembling  for  an  instant,  then  sprang 
up  the  wall  beyond  my  reach.  But  from  that 
time  on  I  always  felt  its  presence  though  un 
seen,  intuitively  conscious  that  at  all  hours  my 
every  act  was  vigilantly  overlooked  and 
guarded  by  the  all-seeing  eye  of  that  spicier, 
and  that  every  motion  of  my  pen  was  duly  no 
ted  by  it,  and  accepted  as  token  of  the  fact 
that  I  was  busy  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 
In  fact  I  even  allowed  my  vanity  such  license 
that  I  came  to  believe  that  the  spider  was  not 
only  interested  in  everything  I  did,  but  was 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  167 

actually  proud  of  my  accomplishments  beside. 
Certain  it  is,  I  argued,  that  he  likes  my 
silence,  my  music,  and  my  voice,  and  equally 
apparent  from  his  actions  that  he  likes  my  so 
ciety  under  any  and  all  circumstances,  and  it 
shall  not  be  the  promptings  of  mere  curiosity 
on  my  part  in  the  endeavor  to  strengthen  and 
develop  this  curious  bond  of  fellowship,  but 
my  serious  and  most  courteous  duty  as  well. 

So  I  went  back  to  my  night  labors,  even 
greeted  the  first  evening,  as  I  lit  my  lamp  and 
sat  down  at  the  desk,  with  another  mysterious 
scrawl,  which  I  readily  interpreted  in  the  one 
word  "Love." 

I  dashed  the  scrap  down  in  a  very  spasm  of 
revulsion  and  loathing.  I  can  not  describe. 

O  ' 

nor  will  I  weaken,  the  sense  of  utter  abhorrence 
that  fell  upon  me,  by  an  attempt  to  set  it  forth 
in  words  ;  why,  I  could  taste  it,  and  it  sick 
ened  me  soul-deep !  I  remember  catching 
quick  breaths  through  my  clenched  and  naked 
teeth  ;  I  remember  snatching  up  the  pen  as  a 
despairing  man  might  grasp  a  dagger ;  I  re 
member  stabbing  it  in  the  ink,  and  drawing 
it  back  in  defiance,  but  as  my  hand  once  more 
rested  on  the  desk  it  was  my  hand  no  longer. 
It  was  like  another  man's,  and  that  man  my 
deadly  foe.  I  looked  upon  it  vengefully,  wish 
ing  that  in  my  other  I  but  held  an  ax — an  old 


l68  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

ax,  with  a  nicked  and  rusty  edge,  that  I  might 
hack  and  haggle  the  traitor-member  sheer  off 
at  the  numb  and  pulseless  wrist.  And  then 
the  spider !  I  tried  to  shrink  back  as  the  hid 
eous  insect  again  dangled  before  my  eyes,  but 
could  not  move.  Once  more  it  clutched  the 
holder  of  the  pen,  huddled  its  quivering  limbs 
together,  and  sqatted  in  its  old  position  on  the 
tip.  And  then  began  the  movement  of  the 
hand. 

This  time  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  in 
sect.  I  could  not  move  them  from  it.  I  could 
see  nothing  else ;  and  but  for  the  undulating 
motions  of  the  pen  I  felt  that  I  might  note  its 
very  breathings — and  I  did  see  it  smile.  Oh, 
horrible !  Why,  I  set  my  teeth  together  till 
my  inner  sense  of  hearing  pinged  like  a  bell, 
and  I  said,  away  down  among  the  twanging 
fibers  of  my  heart,  "I  will  kill  you  for  that 
smile!  I  will  kill  you — kill  you!"  and  when 
at  last  the  motion  of  the  hand  had  ceased,  and 
the  hideous  insect  again  ran  down  the  pen 
holder,  leaning  and  pressing  in  my  naked 
flesh  that  keen,  exquisite  sting,  I  snapped  the 
thrall  that  bound  me,  flung  the  spider  violently 
against  the  desk,  stabbed  the  pen  wildly  at  il 
with  a  dozen  swift,  vindictive  motions  as  the 
abhorrent  thing  lay  for  the  moment  writhing 
on  its  back.  And  I  struck  it,  too,  and  pinioi  *<ii 


TALE   OF   A   SPIDER.  169 

it ;  but  as  for  an  instant  I  turned  away  from 
the  revolting  sight,  my  pen  still  quivering 
above  it,  sunken  eye-deep  in  the  desk,  my 
victim  yet  escaped  me,  for,  as  I  turned  again, 
no  sign  remained  to  designate  my  murderous 
deed  but  one  poor  severed  limb,  twitching 
and  trembling  in  ever  lessening  throes  and 
convulsions. 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  mysterious  scrap 
once  more,  with  the  same  unaccountable  feel 
ing  of  dread  and  revulsion  that  had  possessed 
me  as  I  read  the  scrawl.  Written  in  the  same 
minute,  tremulous  but  legible  hand  in  which 
the  first  was  traced,  I  read  : 

"  O,  what  strange  tragedy  is  this  of  mine 

That  wars  within,  and  will  not  let  me  cry  ? 

My  soul  seems  leaking  from  me  sigh  by  sigh; 
And  yet  I  dare  not  say — nor  he  divine — 
That  I,  so  vile  and  loathesome  in  design, 

Am  brimmed  with  boiling  love;  but  I  must  lie 

Forever  steeped  in  seething  agony! 
If  all  these  quivering  arms  might  wreathe  and  twine, 

And  soak  him  up  in  one  warm  clasp  of  bliss — 
One  long  caress,  when  babbling  wild  with  words 

My  voice  was  crushed  and  mangled  with  his  kiss. 
My  soul  would  whistle  sweeter  than  the  birds — 

But  now,  my  dry  and  husky  heart  in  this 

Pent  heat  of  gasping  passion  can  but  hiss! " 

Be  patient,  I  am  hurrying  toward  the  end, 
I  am  very  lonesome  here  alone.  For  three 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

long,  empty  nights  have  I  sat  thus,  with  noth 
ing  but  the  raspings  of  my  pen  for  company. 
I  can  not  sleep  now ;  and  I  wouldn't  if  I 
could.  My  head  feels  as  if  I  had  a  very  heavy 
hat  on,  and  I  put  up  my  hand  sometimes  to 
see.  My  head  is  feverish,  that's  all.  I  have 
been  working  too  late  again.  Last  night  I 
heard  Hays  come  up  the  steps — my  window 
opens  on  an  alley,  but  at  night  the  light  shows 
from  the  street.  Hays  has  a  peculiar  walk, 
I'd  know  it  if  I  heard  it  in  the  grass  above  my 
grave.  And  he  came  up  the  stairs  last  night, 
and  knocked  and  rattled  at  the  door ;  but  I 
was  very  still,  and  so  he  went  away.  Some 
times  I  think  that  fellow  isn't  right  exactly  in  his 
mind.  I  never  knew  what  silence  was  before. 
It  will  not  even  whisper  to  me  now.  Some 
times  I  stop  and  listen,  and  then  it  holds  its 
breath  and  listens  too — but  we  never  hear  a 
thing.  The  old  guitar  leans  in  the  corner 
with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall.  I  know  it's 
sorry,  but  it  would  be  such  a  comfort  to  me  if 
it  would  only  moan  or  murmur  as  it  used  to. 
I  alwa}-s  tune  it  the  first  thing  when  I  come 
in,  and  lean  it  back,  just  as  it  was  when  the 
spider  first  began  to  play  it,  but  the  spider 
won't  go  near  it  any  more.  Even  the  spider 
has  deserted  me,  and  gone  away  and  left  me 
here  alone — all  alone !  One  night,  late,  I 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  iyi 

heard  it  coming  up  the  stairs  ;  and  it  knocked 
and  rattled  at  the  door,  and  I  wouldn't  let  it 
in,  and  so  it  went  away — and  do  you  know 
that  I  have  often  thought  that  that  spider 
wasn't  right — in  its  mind,  you  know?  Oh, 
yes  I  I  have  often  thought  so — often  !  This 
hat  bothers  me,  but  I'll  hurry  on — I  must 
hurry  on. 

When  I  came  in  to-night — no ;  last  night  it 
was — when  I  came  to  work  last  night,  there 
was  another  of  those  scrawls  the  spider  had 
left  for  me,  and  it  was  written  in  a  very  trem 
bling  hand.  The  letters  were  blotted  and 
slurred  together  so  I  could  hardly  make  the 
word  out ;  but  I  did  make  it  out,  and  it 
was  simply  the  one  word,  "Death" — just 
«*  Death."  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  it,  and  I 
tried  to  make  it  read  something  else ;  but  it 
wouldn't.  It  was  "  Death."  And  so  I  laid  it 
gently  on  the  desk  and  walked  about  the  room 
very  softly  for  a  long  time.  And  the  night 
kept  on  getting  stiller,  and  stiller,  and  stiller, 
till  it  just  stopped.  But  that  didn't  disturb  me  ; 
I  was  not  sleepy,  anyhow,  and  so  I  sat  down 
at  the  desk,  took  up  my  pen,  and  waited.  I 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  the  guitar  wouldn't 
play  any  more,  and  I  was  lonesome ;  so  I  sat 
down  at  the  desk,  and  took  up  the  pen  and 
waited.  *.- 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

Sometimes  I  think  it's  those  spells  the  spider 
gives  me  that  makes  my  head  feel  this  way. 
Feels  like  I  had  a  heavy  hat  on  ;  but  I  haven't 
any  hat  on  at  all,  and  if  I  had  I  wouldn't  have 
it  on  here  in  the  room.  I  can't  even  sit  in  the 
cars  with  a  hat  on. 

And  so  I  waited,  and  waited,  but  it  seemed 
like  it  hadn't  got  still  enough  for  the  spider 
yet.  It  was  still  enough  for  me ;  but  I  got  to 
thinking  about  why  the  spider  didn't  come, 
and  concluded  at  last  that  it  wasn't  still  enough 
yet  for  the  spider.  So  I  waited  till  it  got  so 
still  I  could  see  it,  and  then  the  spider  came 
sliding  along  down  through  it ;  and  when  it 
touched  the  pen-holder,  and  I  got  a  good  clear 
look  at  it,  I  flashed  dead-numb  clean  to  the 
marrow.  It  was  so  pale  !  Did  you  ever  see 
a  spider  after  it  had  had  a  long  spell  of  sick 
ness?  That's  the  way  this  spider  looked.  I 
shuddered  as  it  huddled  its  trembling  legs  to 
gether  and  sat  down.  And  -then  the  pen 
moved  off,  with  that  pale,  ghastly,  haggard 
insect  nodding  away  again  as  though  it  still 
was  victor  of  the  field  ;  and,  as  at  last,  I  found 
courage  to  peer  closer  into  its  face,  I  saw  that 
same  accursed  smile  flung  back  at  me.  All 
pity  and  compassion  fled  away,  and  I  felt  my 
heart  snarl  rabidly  and  champ  its  bloody  jaws 
with  deadly  hate.  And  wi'frn  the  spider  hob- 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER.  173 

down  the  penholder  and  touched  my 
hand  again,  the  only  sting  I  felt  upon  it  was 
the  vengeful  blow  I  smote  it  with  the  other,  as 
I  held  and  ground  it  there  with  an  exultant 
cry  that  rang  out  upon  the  silence  till  the 
echoes  clapped  their  very  hands  and  shouted 
with  me,  "  Dead  !  dead  at  last!  Dead!  dead  I 
and  I  am  free !  "  O,  how  I  reveled  in  my 
fancied  triumph  as  I  danced  about  the  roomr 
crunching  my  hands  together  till  I  thought 
that  I  could  feel  the  clammy  fragments  of  the 
hateful  thing  gaumed  and  slimed  about  be 
tween  my  palms  and  fingers !  And  what  a 
fool  I  was  !  for  when  at  last  I  unclasped  them 
and  spread  them  wide  apart  in  utter  loathing, 
they  were  as  free  from  taint  or  moisture  as 
they  are  this  very  moment ;  and  then  it  all 
flashed  on  me  that  I  was  in  some  horrid 
dream — some  hideous,  baleful  nightmare — 
some  fell  delusion  of  a  fevered  sleep.  But  no  I 
I  could  not  force  that  comfort  on  myself,  for 
here  the  lamp  sat  burning  brightly  as  at  this 
very  moment,  and  I  reached  and  held  my 
finger  on  the  chimney  till  it  burnt.  I  wheeled 
across  the  room,  opened  the  door,  went  to  the 
window  and  raised  it,  and  felt  the  chill  draft 
sweeping  in  upon  my  fevered  face.  I  took 
my  hat  from  the  sofa  and  dashed  out  into  the 
night.  I  was  not  asleep ;  I  had  not  been 


174  TALE    OF    A    SPIDER. 

asleep  ;  for  not  until  broad  daylight  did  I  re 
turn,  to  find  the  window  opened  just  as  I  had 
left  it ;  the  lamp  still  blazing  at  its  fullest  glare, 
and  that  grim  scrawl,  "Death,"  lying  still 
upon  the  desk,  with  these  lines  traced  legibly 
beneath  it : 

"And  did  you  know  our  old  friend  Death  is  dead? 

Ah  me  !  he  died  last  night ;  my  ghost  was  there, 

And  all  his  phantom-friends  from  everywhere 
Were  sorrowfully  grouped  about  his  bed. 
"*  I  die  ;  God  help  the  living  now  ! '  he  said 

With  such  a  ghastly  pathos,  I  declare 

The  tears  oozed  from  the  blind  eyes  of  the  air, 
And  spattered  on  his  face  in  gouts  of  red. 
And  then  he  smiled — the  dear  old  bony  smile 

That  glittered  on  us  in  that  crazy  whim 
When  first  our  daring  feet  leapt  the  defile 

Of  life,  and  ran  so  eagerly  to  him : 
And  so  he  smiled  upon  us,  even  while 

The  kind  old  sockets  grew  forever  dim." 

I  am  almost  through.  It  is  nearly  morning 
as  I  write.  When  daylight  comes,  and  this  is 
finished,  I  can  sleep. 

That  last  spider  that  appeared  to  me  was 
not  the  real  spider.  That  last  spider  was  not 
a  spider,  and  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know :  Four 
hours  ago  as  I  sat  writing  here,  I  dipped  and 
dragged  a  strange  clot  from  the  inkstand  with 
my  pen.  It  is  barely  dry  yet,  and  it  is  a 
drowned  spider.  It  is  the  real  spider — the 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER.  175 

other  spider  was  its  ghost.  Listen  :  I  know 
this  is  the  real  spider  from  the  fact  that  it  has 
one  leg  missing,  and  the  leg  that  has  been 
lying  on  my  desk  here  for  three  days  and 
nights,  I  find  upon  careful  examination  and 
adjustment,  is  the  leg  that  originally  supplied 
this  deficiency. 

Whatever  theory  it  may  please  you  to  ad 
vance  regarding  the  mysterious  manifestations 
of  the  spider  while  in  the  flesh,  will  doubtless 
be  as  near  the  correct  one  as  my  own.  Cer 
tainly  I  shall  not  attempt  to  controvert  any 
opinion  you  may  choose  to  express.  I  simply 
reserve  the  right,  in  conclusion  of  my  story, 
to  say  that  I  believe  this  spider  met  his  death 
by  suicide. 


WHERE  is  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 


TEE  ELF  CHILD. 

Little  Orphant  Allie  '«  come  to  our  home  to  stay 

An'  wash  the  cups   and  saucers  up,  and  brush  the  crumbr 

away, 
An'  shoo  the  chickens  off  the  porch,  an'  diist   the  hearth, 

an'  sweep, 
Ar!  make  the  fire,  an'  bake  the  bread,  an1  earn  her  board-an*- 

keep; 

An'  all  tit  other  children,  when  the  supper  things  is  done. 
We  set  around  the  kitchen  fire  an'  has  the  mostest  fun 
A-list'nin'  to  the  witch  tales  'at  Allie  tells  about, 
An'  the  gobble-uns  'at  gits  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 
Out  I 

Onc't  they  was  a  little  boy  wouldn't  say  his  pray'rt— 

An'  when  he  went  to  bed  'at  night,  away  up  stairs, 

Hit  *»ammy  hferd  him  hoUer,  an'  his  daddy  heerd  him  bawl, 

An'  when  they  turn't  the  kiwers  down,  he  wasn't  there  at  attf 

An'  they  seeked  him  in  the  rafter-room,  an'  cubby-hole,  an' 

press, 

An'  seeked  him  up  the  chimbly-flue,  an'  everwheres,  I  guess, 
But  all  they  ever  found  was  thist  hit  pants  an'  round-about ! — 
An'  the  gobble-uns  'II  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 

Out/  (178) 


THE   ELF    CHILD.  179 

An'  one  time  a,  little  girl  'ud  allus  laugh  an'  grin, 

An'  make  fun  of  ever'  one  an'  all  her  blood-an'-kin, 

An'  onc't  when  they  was  "  company,"  an'  ole  folks  was  there, 

She  mocked  'em  an'  shocked  'em,  an'  said  she  didn't  care  I 

An'  thisl  as  she  kicked  her  heels,  an'  turn't  to  run  an'  hide, 

They  was  two  great  big  Black  Things  a-standin'  by  her  side, 

An'  they  snatched  her  through  the  ceilin'  'fore  she  know'd  what 

she's  about ! 

An'  the  gobble-uns  'II  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 
Out/ 

An'  little  Orphant  Allie  says,  when  the  blaze  is  blue, 
An'  the  lampwick  sputters,  an'  the  wind  goes  woo- oof 
An'  you  hear  the  crickets  quit,  an'  the  moon  is  gray. 
An'  the  lightnin'-bugs  in  dew  is  all  squenched  away,—' 
You  better  mind  yer  parents,  and  yer  teachers  fond  and  dear, 
An'  churish  'em  'at  loves  you,  an'  dry  the  orphant's  tear, 
An'  he'p  the  pore  an'  needy  ones  'at  clusters  all  about, 
ErJLhe  gobble-uns  'II  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 
Out/ 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

"  \  A  7HERE— is~ Mar7—  Alice— Smith? 
Y  V  O — she — has — gone — home!"  It 
was  the  thin,  mysterious  voice  of  little  Mary 
Alice  Smith  herself  that  so  often  queried  and 
responded  as  above  —  every  word  accented 
with  a  sweet  and  eerie  intonation,  and  a  very 
gaiety  of  solemn  earnestness  that  baffled  the 
cunning  skill  of  all  childish  imitators.  A 
slender  wisp  of  a  girl  she  was,  not  more  than 
ten  years  of  age  in  appearance,  though  it  had 
been  given  to  us  as  fourteen.  The  spindle 
ankles  that  she  so  airily  flourished  from  the 
sparse  concealment  of  a  worn  and  shadowy 
calico  skirt  seemed  scarce  a  fraction  more  in 
girth  than  the  slim,  blue -veined  wrists  she 
tossed  among  the  loose  and  ragged  tresses  of 
her  yellow  hair,  as  she  danced  around  the 
room.  She  was,  from  the  first,  an  object  of 
curious  and  most  refreshing  interest  to  our 
family — to  us  children  in  particular — an  in 
terest,  though  years  and  years  have  inter 
posed  to  shroud  it  in  the  dull  dust  of  forget- 
(181) 


l82  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

fulness,  that  still  remains  vivid  and  bright  and 
beautiful.  Whether  an  orphan  child  only,  or 
with  a  father  that  could  thus  lightly  send  her 
adrift,  I  do  not  know  now,  nor  do  I  care  to 
ask,  but  I  do  recall  distinctly  that  on  a  raw, 
bleak  day  in  early  winter,  she  was  brought  to 
us,  from  a  wild  country  settlement,  by  a  re 
puted  uncle — a  gaunt,  round-shouldered  man, 
with  deep  eyes  and  sallow  cheeks  and  weedy- 
looking  beard,  as  we  curiously  watched  him 
from  the  front  window  stolidly  swinging  this 
little  blue-lipped,  red-nosed  waif  over  the 
muddy  wagon-wheel  to  father's  arms,  like  so 
much  country  produce.  And  even  as  the  man 
resumed  his  seat  upon  the  thick  board  laid 
across  the  wagon,  and  sat  chewing  a  straw, 
with  spasmodic  noddings  of  the  head,  as  some 
brief  further  conference  detained  him,  I  re 
member  mother  quickly  lifting  my  sister  up 
from  where  we  stood,  folding  and  holding  the 
little  form  in  unconscious  counterpart  of  father 
and  the  little  girl  without.  And  how  we  gath 
ered  round  her  when  father  brought  her  in, 
and  mother  fixed  a  cosy  chair  for  her  close  to 
the  blazing  fire,  and  untied  the  little  summer 
hat,  with  its  hectic  trimmings,  together  with 
the  dismal  green  veil  that  had  been  bound 
beneath  it  round  the  little  tingling  ears.  The 
hollow,  pale-blue  eyes  of  the  child  followed 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH?  183 

every  motion  with  an  alertness  that  suggested 
a  somewhat  suspicious  mind. 

"Dave  gimme  that!"  she  said,  her  eyes 
proudly  following  the  hat  as  mother  laid  it  on 
the  pillow  of  the  bed.  "  Mustn't  git  it  mussed 
up,  sir!  er  you'll  have  Dave  in  your  wool !" 
she  continued,  warningly,  as  our  childish  in 
terest  drew  us  to  a  nearer  view  of  the  gaudy 
article  in  question. 

Half  awed,  we  shrank  back  to  our  first 
wonderment,  one  of  us,  however,  with  the 
bravery  to  ask:  "Who's  Dave?" 

"Who's  Dave?"  reiterated  the  little  voice, 
half  scornfully,  "  W'y  Dave's  a  great  big  boy  I 
Dave  works  on  Barnses  place.  And  he  kin 
purt  nigh  make  a  full  hand,  too.  Dave's  purt 
nigh  tall  as  your  pap  !  He's  purt  nigh  growed 
up — Dave  is  !  And  —  David  —  Mason — Jef 
fries —  "  she  continued,  jauntily  teetering  her 
head  from  left  to  right,  and  for  the  first  time 
introducing  that  peculiar  deliberation  of  ac 
cent  and  undulating  utterance  that  we  after 
ward  found  to  be  her  quaintest  and  most 
charming  characteristic — '  'And — David — Ma 
son  — Jeffries  —  he  —  likes  —  Mary  —  Alice  — 
Smith  !  "  And  then  she  broke  abruptly  into 
the  merriest  laughter,  and  clapped  her  little 
palms  together  till  they  fairly  glowed. 


184  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

"And  who's  Mary  Alice  Smith?  "  clamored 
a  chorus  of  merry  voices. 

The  elfish  figure  straightened  haughtily  in 
the  chair.  Folding  the  slender  arms  tightly 
across  her  breast,  and,  tilting  her  wan  face 
back  with  an  imperious  air,  she  exclaimed 
sententiously,  "  W'y,  Mary  Alice  Smith  is  me 
— that's  who  Mary  Alice  Smith  is  !  " 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  her  usual 
bright  and  infectious  humor  was  restored, 
and  we  were  soon  piloting  the  little  stranger 
here  and  there  about  the  house,  and  laughing 
at  the  thousand  funny  things  she  said  and 
did.  The  winding  stairway  in  the  hall  quite 
dazed  her  with  delight.  Up  and  down  she 
went  a  hundred  times,  it  seemed.  And  she 
would  talk  and  whisper  to  herself,  and  often 
times  would  stop  and  nestle  down  and  rest 
her  pleased  face  close  against  a  step  and  pat 
it  softly  with  her  slender  hand,  peering  curi 
ously  down  at  us  with  half  averted  eyes.  And 
she  counted  them  and  named  them,  every  one, 
as  she  went  up  and  down. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  I'm  come  to  live  in  this 
here  house,"  she  said. 

We  asked  her  why. 

"  O,  'cause,"  she  said,  starting  up  the  stairs 
again  by  an  entirely  novel  and  original 
method  of  her  own — "'cause  Uncle  Tomps, 


WHERE  IS  MARTT    ALICE  SMITH  ?  l8c 

W- 

ner  Aunt  'Lizabeth  don't  live  here  ;  and  when 
they  ever  come  here  to  git  their  dinners,  like 
they  will  ef  you  don't  watch  out,  w'y  then  I 
kin  slip  out  here  on  these  here  stairs  and  play 
like  I  was  climin'  up  to  the  Good  World 
where  my  mother  is — that's  why  !  " 

Then  we  hushed  our  laughter,  and  asked 
her  where  her  home  was,  and  what  it  was 
like,  and  why  she  didn't  like  her  Uncle 
Tomps  and  Aunt  'Lizabeth,  and  if  she 
wouldn't  want  to  visit  them  sometimes. 

"O,  yes,"  she  artlessly  answered  in  reply 
to  the  concluding  query;  "I'll  want  to  go 
back  there  lots  o'  times  ;  but  not  to  see  them  f 
I'll — only — go — back — there — to — see" — and 
here  she  was  holding  up  the  little  flared-out 
fingers  of  her  left  hand,  and  with  the  index 
finger  of  the  right  touching  their  pink  tips  in 
ordered  notation  with  the  accent  of  every  glee 
ful  word, — "I'll — only — go — back — there — to 
— see —  David —  Mason — Jeffries  —  'cause  — 
he's — the — boy — fer — me!"  And  then  she 
clapped  her  hands  again  and  laughed  in  that 
half- hysterical,  half- musical  way  of  h«srs  till 
we  all  joined  in  and  made  the  echoe?  of  the 
old  hall  ring  again.  "And  then,"  sh*  went 
on,  suddenly  throwing  out  an  imperative  ges 
ture  of  silence  ;  "  and  then,  after  I've  b-een  in 
this  here  house  a  long,  long  time,  and  y<;u  all 


1 86  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

git  so's  you  like  me  awful — awful — awful  well, 
then  some  day  you'll  go  in  that  room  there — 
and  that  room  there — and  in  the  kitchen — and 
out  on  the  porch — and  down  the  cellar — and 
out  in  the  smoke-house — and  the  wood- house 
—and  the  loft — an'  all  around — O,  ever'  place 
— and  in  here — and  up  the  stairs — and  all 
them  rooms  up  there — and  you'll  look  behind 
all  the  doors — and  in  all  the  cubboards — and 
under  all  the  beds — and  then  you'll  look  sorry- 
like,  and  holler  out,  kindo  skeert,  and  you'll 
say — "  Where — is — Mary — Alice — Smith?  " 
And  then  you'll  wait  and  listen  and  hold  your 
breath  ;  and  then  somepin'll  holler  back,  away 
fer  off,  and  say:  "O  —  she  —  has  —  gone  — 
home  !"  And  then  ever'thing'll  be  all  still  agin, 
and  you'll  be  afeard  to  holler  anymore — and 
you  dursn't  play — and  you  can't  laugh,  and 
your  throat'll  thist  hurt  and  hurt,  like  you 
been  a-eatin'  too  much  calamus  root  er  some- 
pin'  !  "  And  as  the  little  gypsy  concluded  her 
weird  prophecy  with  a  final  flourish  of  her  big, 
pale  eyes,  we  glanced  furtively  at  each  other's 
awe-struck  face,  with  a  superstitious  dread  of 
a  vague,  indefinite  disaster  most  certainly 
awaiting  us  around  some  shadowy  corner  of 
the  future.  Through  all  this  speech  she  had 
been  slowly  and  silently  groping  up  the  wind 
ing  steps,  her  voice  growing  fainter  and  fainter, 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH?  187 

and  the  little  pixy-form  fading,  and  wholly 
vanishing  at  last  around  the  spiral  banister  of 
the  upper  landing.  Then  down  to  us  from 
that  alien  recess  came  the  voice  alone,  touched 
with  a  tone  of  wild  entreaty  and  despair: 
"  Where— is— Mary—  Alice—  Smith?  "  And 
then  a  long,  breathless  pause,  in  which  our 
wide-eyed  group  below  huddled  still  closer, 
pale  and  mute.  Then — far  off  and  faint  and 
quavering  with  a  tenderness  of  pathos  that 
dews  the  eyes  of  memory  even  now — came, 
like  a  belated  echo,  the  voice  all  desolate : 
"  O — she — has — efone — home  !  " 

o 

What  a  queer  girl  she  was,  and  what  a  fas 
cinating  influence  she  unconsciouslv  exerted 

O  «/ 

over  us  !  We  never  tired  of  her  presence,  but 
she,  deprived  of  ours  by  the  many  household 
tasks  that  she  herself  assumed,  so  rigidly 
maintained  and  deftly  executed,  seemed  al 
ways  just  as  happy  when  alone  as  when  in 
our  boisterous,  fun-loving  company.  Such 
resources  had  Mary  Alice  Smith — such  a 
wonderfully  inventive  fancy  !  She  could  talk 
to  herself,  a  favorite  amusement,  I  might  al 
most  say  a  popular  amusement,  of  hers,  since 
these  monologues  at  times  would  involve  num 
berless  characters,  chipping  in  from  manifold 
quarters  of  a  wholesale  discussion,  and  query 
ing  and  exaggerating,  agreeing  and  contro- 


i88 

verting,  till  the  dishes  she  was  washing  would 
clash  and  clang  excitedly  in  the  general 
badinage.  Loaded  with  a  pyramid  of  glisten 
ing  cups  and  saucers  she  would  improvise  a 
gallant  line  of  march  from  the  kitchen  table 
to  the  pantry,  heading  an  imaginary  proces 
sion,  and  whistling  a  fife-tune  that  would  stir 
your  blood.  Then  she  would  trippingly  re 
turn,  rippling  her  rosy  fingers  up  and  down 
the  keys  of  an  imaginary  portable  piano,  or 
stammering  fiat-soled  across  the  floor,  chuffing 
and  tooting  like  a  locomotive.  And  she  would 
gravely  propound  to  herself  the  most  intricate 
riddles — ponder  thoughtfully  and  in  silence 
over  them — hazard  the  most  ridiculous  an 
swers,  and  laugh  derisively  at  her  own  affected 
ignorance.  She  would  guess  again  and  again, 
and  assume  the  most  gleeful  surprise  upon  at 
last  giving  the  proper  answer,  and  then  she 
would  laugh  jubilantly,  and  mockingly  scout 
herself  with  having  given  out  "  a  fool-riddle  " 
that  she  could  guess  "  with  both  eyes  shut." 

"Talk  about  riddles,"  she  said  abruptly  to 
us,  one  evening  after  supper,  as  we  lingered 
watching  her  clearing  away  the  table  ;  "  talk 
about  riddles,  it  —  takes — David — Mason  — 
Jeffries — to — tell — riddles  !  Bet  you  don't 
know 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH  ?  189 

*  Kiddle-cum,  riddle-cum  right! 
Where  was  I  last  Saturday  night  ? 
The  winds  did  blow — the  boughs  did  shake — 
I  saw  the  hole  a  fox  did  make  1 ' " 

Again  we  felt  that  indefinable  thrill  never 
separate  from  the  strange  utterance,  suggest 
ive  always  of  some  dark  mystery,  and  fascin 
ating  and  holding  the  childish  fancy  in  com 
plete  control. 

"  Bet  you  don't  know  this  un  neither: 

'A  holler-hearted  father, 

And  a  hump-back  mother- 
Three  black  orphants 
All  born  together  1 '  " 

We  were  dumb. 

"  You  can't  guess  nothin',"  she  said,  half 
pityingly,  "  W'y  them's  easy  as  fallin'  off 
a  chunk !  First  uns  a  man  named  Fox,  and 
he  kilt  his  wife  and  chopped  her  head  oft',  and 
they  was  a  man  named  Wright  lived  in  that 
neighborhood — and  he  was  a  goin'  home — 
and  it  was  Saturday  night  —  and  he  was 
a-comin'  through  the  big  woods  —  and  they 
was  a  storm  —  and  Wright  he  clum  a  tree 
to  git  out  the  rain,  and  while  he  was  up 
there  here  come  along  a  man  with  a  dead 
woman — and  a  pickax,  and  a  spade.  And  he 
drug  the  dead  woman  under  the  same  tree 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

where  Mr.  Wright  was — so  ever'  time  it  ud 
lightnin',  w'y  Wright  he  could  look  down  and 
see  him  a-diggin'  a  grave  there  to  bury  the 
woman  in.  So  Wright  he  kep'  still  till  he  got 
her  buried  all  right,  you  know,  and  went 
back  home ;  and  then  he  clumb  down  and  lit 
out  fer  town,  and  waked  up  the  constabul — 
and  he  got  a  supeeny  and  went  out  to  Fox's 
place,  and  had  him  jerked  up  'fore  the  gran' 
jury.  Then,  when  Fox  was  in  court  and 
wanted  to  know  where  their  proof  was  that  he 
kilt  his  wife,  w'y  Wright  he  jumps  up  and 
says  that  riddle  to  the  judge  and  all  the  neigh 
bors  that  was  there.  And  so  when  they  got 
it  all  studied  out — w'y  they  tuck  ole  Fox  out 
and  hung  him  under  the  same  tree  where  he 
buried  Mrs.  Fox  under.  And  that's  all  o' 
that'n  ;  and  the  other'n —  I  promised — David 
— Mason  — Jeffries  —  I  wouldn't — never — tell 
—  no  —  livin — soul  — 'less — he — gimme — leef, 
— er — they — guessed — it  — out — their — own — 
se'f !"  And  as  she  gave  this  rather  ambiguous 
explanation  of  the  first  riddle,  with  the  myste 
rious  comment  on  the  latter  in  conclusion, 
she  shook  her  elfin  tresses  back  over  her 
shoulders  with  a  cunning  toss  of  her  head  and 
a  glimmering  twinkle  of  her  pale  bright  eyes 
that  somehow  reminded  us  of  the  fairy  god 
mother  in  Cinderella. 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH?  191 

And  Mary  Alice  Smith  was  right,  too,  in 
her  early  prognostications  regarding  the  visits 
of  her  Uncle  Tomps  and  Aunt  'Lizabeth. 
Many  times  through  the  winter  they  "jest 
dropped  in,"  as  Aunt  'Lizabeth  always  ex 
pressed  it,  "to  see  how  we  was  a-gittin'  on 
with  Mary  Alice."  And  once,  "  in  court 
week,"  during  a  prolonged  trial  in  which 
Uncle  Tomps  and  Aunt  'Lizabeth  rather 
prominently  figured,  they  "jest  dropped  in" 
upon  us  and  settled  down  and  dwelt  with  us 
for  the  longest  five  days  and  nights  we  child 
ren  had  ever  in  our  lives  experienced.  Nor 
was  our  long  term  of  restraint  from  childish 
sports  relieved  wholly  by  their  absence,  since 
Aunt  'Lizabeth  had  taken  Mary  Alice  back 
with  them,  saying  that  "A  good  long  visit  to 
her  dear  ole  home — pore  as  it  was — would  do 
the  child  good." 

And  then  it  was  that  we  went  about  the 
house  in  moody  silence,  the  question,  "Where 
— is — Mary — Alice — Smith?"  forever  yearn 
ing  at  our  lips  for  utterance,  and  the  still  be 
lated  echo  in  the  old  hall  overhead  forever 
answering,  "  O — she — has — gone — home  !  " 

It  was  early  spring  when  she  returned. 
And  we  were  looking  for  her  coming,  and 
knew  a  week  beforehand  the  very  day  she 
would  arrive — for  had  not  Aunt  'Lizabeth  sent 


Ip2  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH  ? 

special  word  by  Uncle  Tomps,  who  "  had 
come  to  town  to  do  his  millin',  and  git  the 
latest  war  news,  not  to  fail  to  jest  drop  in  and 
tell  us  that  they  was  layin'  off  to  send  Mary 
Alice  in  next  Saturday." 

Our  little  town,  like  every  other  village  and 
metropolis  throughout  the  country  at  that  time, 
was,  to  the  children,  at  least,  a  scene  of  continu 
ous  holiday  and  carnival.  The  nation's  heart 
was  palpitating  with  the  feverish  pulse  of  war, 
and  already  the  still  half-frozen  clods  of  the 
common  highway  were  beaten  into  frosty  dust 
by  the  tread  of  marshaled  men  ;  and  the  shrill 
shriek  of  the  fife,  and  the  hoarse  boom  and 
jar,  and  the  rattling  patter  of  the  drums  stir 
red  every  breast  with  something  of  that  rap 
turous  insanity  of  which  true  patriots  and 
heroes  can  alone  be  made. 

But  on  that  day,  when  Mary  Alice  Smith 
was  to  return,  what  was  all  the  gallant  tumult 
of  the  town  to  us?  I  remember  how  we  ran 
far  up  the  street  to  welcome  her — for  afar  off 
we  had  recognized  her  elfish  face  and  eager 
eyes  peering  expectantly  from  behind  the 
broad  shoulders  of  a  handsome  fellow  mounted 
on  a  great  high-stepping  horse  that  neighed 
and  pranced  excitedly  as  we  came  skurrying 
toward  them. 

"Whoo-ee!"    she    cried,    in    perfect    ec- 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH?  193 

stasy,  as  we  paused  in  breathless  admiration. 
' '  Clear —  the — track — there,  —  old  —  folks — 
young — folks  ! — for — Mary — Alice — Smith — 
and — David — Mason — Jeffries — is — come — to 
—town!" 

O  what  a  day  that  was  !  And  how  vain  in 
deed  would  be  the  attempt  to  detail  here  a 
tithe  of  its  glory,  or  our  happiness  in  having 
back  with  us  our  dear  little  girl,  and  her  hys 
terical  delight  in  seeing  us  so  warmly  welcome 
to  the  full  love  of  our  childish  hearts  the  great, 
strong,  round-faced,  simple-natured  "David — 
Mason — Jeffries!"  Long  and  long  ago  we 
had  learned  to  love  him  as  we  loved  the  peas 
ant  hero  of  some  fairy  tale  of  Christian  An 
dersen's  ;  but  now  that  he  was  with  us  in  most 
wholesome  and  robust  fealty,  our  very  souls 
seemed  scampering  from  our  bodies  to  run  to 
him  and  be  caught  up  and  tossed  and  swung 
and  dandled  in  his  gentle,  giant  arms. 

All  that  long  delicious  morning  we  were 
with  him.  In  his  tender  charge  we  were  per 
mitted  to  go  down  among  the  tumult  and  the 
music  of  the  streets,  his  round,  good-humored 
face  and  big,  blue  eyes  lit  with  a  luster  like 
our  own.  And  happy  little  Mary  Alice  Smith 
— how  proud  she  was  of  him !  And  how 
closely  and  how  tenderly,  through  all  that 
13 


194  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH  ? 

golden  morning,  did  the  strong  brown  hand 
clasp  hers?  A  hundred  times  at  least,  as  we 
promenaded  thus,  she  swung  her  head  back 
jauntily  to  whisper  to  us  in  that  old  mysteri 
ous  way  of  hers  that  "  David — Mason — Jeff 
ries — and  —  Mary — Alice  —  Smith  —  knew  — 
something  —  that — we  —  couldn't  —  guess  !  " 
But  when  he  had  returned  us  home,  and  after 
dinner  had  started  down  the  street  alone,  with 
little  Mary  Alice  clapping  her  hands  after  him 
above  the  gate  and  laughing  in  a  strange  new 
voice,  and  with  the  backs  of  her  little  flutter 
ing  hands  vainly  striving  to  blot  out  the  big 
tear-drops  that  gathered  in  her  eyes,  we 
vaguely  guessed  the  secret  she  and  David 
kept.  That  night  at  supper  time  we  knew  it 
fully.  He  had  enlisted. 

Among  the  list  of  "  killed  "  at  Rich  Moun 
tain,  occurred  the  name  of  "Jeffries,  David 
M."  We  kept  it  from  her  while  we  could.  At 
last  she  knew. 


"  It  don't  seem  like  no  year  ago  to  me!  " 
Over  and  over  she  had  said  these  words.  The 
face  was  very  pale  and  thin,  and  the  eyes,  so 
bright — so  bright !  The  kindly  hand  that 
smoothed  away  the  little  sufferer's  hair 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH?  195 

-Temblod  and  dropped  tenderly  again  upon 
:he  folded  ones  beneath  the  snowy  spread. 

"  Git  me  out  the  picture  again  !  " 

The  trembling  hand  lifted  once  more  and 
searched  beneath  the  pillow. 

She  drew  the  thin  hands  up,  and,  smiling, 
pressed  the  pictured  face  against  her  lips, 
"David — Mason — Jeffries,"  she  said — "le's 
— me — and — you — go — play — out — on — the — 
stairs  ! " 

And  ever  in  the  empty  home  a  voice  goes 
moaning  on  and  on,  and,  "Where  is  Mary 
Alice  Smith?"  it  cries,  and  "'Where — is — 
Mary — Alice — Smith?"  and  the  still,  belated 
echo,  through  the  high  depths  of  the  old  hall 
overhead,  answers  quaveringly  back,  "  O, — 
she — has — gone — home  !  "  But  her  voice — it 
is  silent  evermore  ! 

O  "Where  is  Mary  Alice  Smith?"  She 
taught  us  how  to  call  her  thus — and  DOW  she 
will  not  answer  us !  Have  we  no  voice  to 
reach  her  with?  How  sweet  and  pure  and 
glad  they  were,  in  those  old  days,  as  we  re 
call  the  accents  ringing  through  the  hall — 
the  same  we  vainly  cry  to  her.  Her  fancies 
were  so  quaint — her  ways  so  full  of  prankish 
mysteries !  We  laughed  then ;  now,  upon 
our  knees,  we  wring  our  lifted  hands  and 
gaze,  through  streaming  tears,  high  up  the 


196  WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH  ? 

stair  she  used  to  climb  in  childish  glee,  to 
call  and  answer  eerily.  And  now,  no  answer 
anywhere ! 

How  deft  the  little  finger-tips  in  every  task  ! 
The  hands,  how  smooth  and  delicate  to  lull 
and  soothe !  And  the  strange  music  of  her 
lips !  The  very  crudeness  of  their  speech 
made  chaster  yet  the  childish  thought  her 
guileless  utterance  had  caught  from  spirit- 
depths  beyond  our  reach.  And  so  her  homely 
name  grew  fair  and  sweet  and  beautiful  to 
hear,  blent  with  the  echoes  pealing  clear  and 
vibrant  up  the  winding  stair, —  "Where — 
where  is  Mary  Alice  Smith?"  She  taught  us 
how  to  call  her  thus — but  O  she  will  not  an 
swer  us  1  We  have  no  voice  to  reach  her 
with. 


ECCENTRIC  Ma  CLARK. 


THE    SAN. 

I. 

Strange  dreams  of  what  I  used  to  be 

And  what  I  dreamed  I  would  be,  swim 

Before  my  vision,  faint  and  dim 

As  misty  distances  we  see 

In  pictured  scenes  of  fairy-lands; 

And  ever  on,  with  empty  hands, 

And  eyes  that  ever  lie  to  me, 

And  smiles  that  no  one  understands, 

I  grope  adown  my  destiny. 

II. 

Some  say  I  waver  when  I  walk 
Along  the  crowded  thoroughfares, 
And  some  leer  in  my  eyes,  and  talk 
Of  dullness,  when  I  see  in  theirs — 
Like  fishes'  eyes,  alive  or  cfcacZ— 
But  surfaces  of  vacancy — 
Blank  disks  that  never  seem  to  see, 
But  glint  and  glow  and  glare  instead. 

III. 

The  ragged  shawl  I  wear  is  icct 
With  driving,  dripping  rains,  and  yet 
It  seems  a  royal  raiment,  where, 
Through  twisted  torrents  of  my  hair, 
(198) 


THE    BAN. 

/  see  rare  gems  that  gleam  and  shine 

Like  jewels  in  a  stream  of  wine; 

The  gaping  shoes  that  clothe  my  feet 

Are  golden  sandals,  and  the  shrine 

Where  courtiers  grovel  and  repeat 

Vain  prayers,  and  where  in  joy  thereat, 

A  fair  Prince  doffs  his  plumed  hat, 

And  kneels,  and  names  me  all  things  sweet. 

IV. 

Sometimes  the  sun  shines,  and  the  lull 
Of  winter  noon  is  like  a  tune 
The  stars  might  twinkle  to  the  moon 
If  night  were  white  and  beautiful — 
For  when  the  clangor  of  the  town, 
And  strife  of  traffic  softens  down, 
TJie  wakeful  hunger  that  I  nurse, 
In  listening,  forgets  to  curse, 
Until — Ah, joy!  with  drooping  head 
1  drowse,  and  dream  that  I  am  dead 
And  buried  safe  beyond  their  eyes 
Who  either  pity  or  despise. 


ECCENTRIC  MR.  CLARK. 

ALL  who  knew  Mr.  Clark  intimately,  cas 
ually,  or  by  sight  alone,  smiled  always, 
meeting  him,  and  thought,  "What  an  odd 
man  he  is  ! "  Not  that  there  was  anything 
extremely  or  ridiculously  obtrusive  in  Mr. 
Clark's  peculiarities,  either  of  feature,  dress, 
or  deportment,  by  which  a  graded  estimate  of 
his  really  quaint  character  might  be  aptly  de 
fined  ;  but  rather,  perhaps,  it  was  the  curious 
combination  of  all  these  things  that  had  gained 
for  Mr.  Clark  the  transient  celebrity  of  being  a 
very  eccentric  man. 

And  Mr.  Clark,  of  all  the  odd  inhabitants 
of  the  busy  metropolis  in  which  he  lived, 
seemed  least  conscious  of  the  fact  of  his  local 
prominence.  True  it  was,  that  when  famil 
iarly  addressed  as  "  Clark,  old  boy,"  by  sport 
ive  individuals  he  never  recollected  having 
seen  before,  he  would  oftentimes,  stare  blankly 
in  return,  and  with  evident  embarrassment ; 
but  as  these  actions  may  have  been  attributable 
to  weak  eyes,  or  to  the  confusion  consequent 
(201) 


2O2  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

upon  being  publicly  recognized  by  the  quon 
dam  associates  of  bacchanalian  hours,  the 
suggestive  facts  only  served  to  throw  his  ec 
centricities  in  new  relief. 

And,  in  the  minds  of  many,  that  Mr.  Clark 
was  somewhat  given  to  dissipation,  there  was 
but  little  doubt — for,  although  in  no  way,  and  at 
no  time,  derelict  in  the  rigid  duties  imposed 
upon  him  as  an  accountant  in  a  wholesale  liquor 
house  on  South  John  street,  a  grand  majority 
of  friends  had  long  ago  conceded  that  a  cer 
tain  puffiness  of  flesh,  and  a  soiled-like  pallor 
of  complexion,  were  in  no  wise  the  legitimate 
result  of  over-application  simply  in  the  count 
ing-room  of  the  establishment  in  which  he 
found  employment ;  but  as  to  the  complicity 
of  Mr.  Clark's  direct  associates  in  this  belief, 
it  is  only  justice  to  the  gentleman  to  state  that 
by  them  he  was  exonerated  beyond  all  such 
suspicion,  from  the  gray-haired  senior  of  the 
firm  down  to  the  pink-nosed  porter  of  the 
ware-rooms,  who,  upon  every  available  occa 
sion,  would  point  out  the  eccentric  Mr.  Clark 
as  "  the  on'y  man  in  the  biznez  'at  never  sunk 
a  '  thief,'  er  drunk  a  drop  o'  goods  o'  any  kind, 
under  no  consideration  !  " 

And  Mr.  Clark  himself,  when  playfully  ap 
proached  upon  the  subject,  would  quietly  as 
sert  that  never,  under  any  circumstances,  had 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  2O3 

the  taste  of  intoxicating  liquors  passed  his  lips, 
though  at  such  times  it  was  a  singularly  no 
ticeable  fact  that  Mr.  Clark's  complexion  in 
variably  grew  more  sultry  than  its  wont,  and 
that  his  eyes,  forever  moist,  grew  dewier,  and 
that  his  lips  and  tongue  would  seem  covertly 
entering  upon  some  lush  conspiracy,  which  in 
its  incipiency  he  would  be  forced  to  smother 
with  his  hastily-drawn  handkerchief.  Then 
the  eccentric  Mr.  Clark  would  laugh  nerv 
ously,  and,  pouncing  on  some  subject  so  viv 
idly  unlike  the  one  just  previous  as  to  daze 
the  listener,  he  would  ripple  ahead  with  a  tide 
of  eloquence  that  positively  overflowed  and 
washed  away  all  remembrance  of  the  opening 
topic. 

In  point  of  age  Mr.  Clark  might  have  been 
thirty,  thirty-five,  or  even  forty  years,  were  one 
to  venture  an  opinion  solely  guided  by  out 
ward  appearances  and  under  certain  circum 
stances  and  surroundings.  As,  for  example, 
when,  a  dozen  years  ago,  the  writer  of  this 
sketch  rode  twenty  miles  in  a  freight  caboose, 
with  Mr.  Clark  as  the  only  other  passenger, 
he  seemed  in  age  at  first  not  less  than  thirty- 
five  ;  but  upon  opening  a  conversation  with 
him,  in  which  he  joined  with  wonderful  vi 
vacity,  a  nearer  view,  and  a  prolonged  and 
studious  one  as  well,  revealed  the  rather  cu- 


2O4  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

rious  fact  that,  at  the  very  limit  of  all  allowa 
ble  supposition,  his  age  could  not  possibly 
have  exceeded  twenty-five.  What  it  was  in 
the  man  that  struck  me  as  eccentric  at  that 
time  I  have  never  been  wholly  able  to  define, 
but  I  recall  accurately  the  most  trivial  occur 
rences  of  our  meeting,  and  the  very  subject- 
matter  of  our  conversation.  I  even  remem 
ber  the  very  words  in  which  he  declined  a 
drink  from  my  traveling  flask — for  "It's  a 
raw  day,"  I  said,  by  way  of  gratuitous  excuse 
for  offering  it.  "Yes,"  he  said,  smilingly 
motioning  the  temptation  aside  ;  "  it  is  a  raw 
day ;  but  you're  rather  young  in  years  to  be 
doctoring  the  weather — at  least  you'd  better 
change  the  treatment — they'll  all  be  ra\v  days 
for  you  after  awhile !  "  I  confess  that  I  even 
felt  an  inward  pity  for  the  man  as  I  laugh 
ingly  drained  his  health  and  returned  the 
flask  to  my  valise.  But  when  I  asked  him, 
ten  minutes  later,  the  nature  of  the  business 
in  which  he  was  engaged,  and  he  handed  me, 
in  response  and  without  comment,  the  card 
of  a  wholesale  liquor  house,  with  his  own 
name  in  crimson  letters  struck  diagonally 
across  the  surface,  I  winked  naively  to  myself 
and  thought  "Ah-ha  !  "  And,  as  if  reading 
niy  very  musings,  he  said  :  "  Why,  certainly, 
I  carry  a  full  line  of  samples  ;  but,  my  dear 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  2C>5 

young  friend,  don't  imagine  for  a  minute  that 
I  refuse  your  brand  on  that  account.  You 
can  rest  assured  that  I  have  nothing  better  in 
my  cases.  Whisky  is  whisky  wherever  it  is 
found,  and  there  is  no  '  best '  whisky — not  in 
all  the  world  !  " 

Truly,  I  thought,  this  is  an  odd  source  for 
the  emanation  of  temperance  sentiments — 
then  said  aloud:  "And  yet  you  engage  in  a 
business  you  dislike  !  Traffic  in  an  article  that 
you  yourself  condemn !  Do  I  understand 
you?" 

"  Might  there  not  be  such  a  thing,"  he  said 
quietly,  "as  inheriting  a  business — the  same 
as  inheriting  an  appetite?  However,  one  ad 
vances  by  gradations.  I  shall  sell  no  more. 
This  is  my  last  trip  on  the  road  in  that  capac 
ity.  I  am  coming  in  now  to  take  charge  of 
the  firm's  books.  Would  be  glad  to  have  you 
call  on  me  any  time  you're  in  the  city.  Good 
bye."  And,  as  he  swung  off  the  slowly-mov 
ing  train,  now  entering  the  city,  and  I  stood 
watching  him  from  the  open  door  of  the  ca 
boose  as  he  rapidly  walked  down  a  suburban 
street,  I  was  positive  his  gait  was  anything 
but  steady — that  the  step  —  the  figure — the 
whole  air  of  the  man  was  that  of  one  then  la 
boring  under  the  effects  of  partial  intoxica 
tion. 


2O6  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

I  have  always  liked  peculiar  people ;  no 
matter  where  I  met  them,  no  matter  who  they 
were,  if  once  impressed  with  an  eccentricity 
of  character  which  I  have  reason  to  believe 
purely  unaffected,  I  never  quite  forget  the 
person,  name  or  place  of  our  first  meeting,  or 
where  the  interesting  party  may  be  found 
again.  And  so  it  was  in  the  customary  order 
of  things  that,  during  hasty  visits  to  the  city, 
I  often  called  on  the  eccentric  Mr.  Clark,  and, 
as  he  had  promised  upon  our  first  acquaint 
ance,  he  seemed  always  glad  to  see  and  wel 
come  me  in  his  new  office.  The  more  I  knew 
of  him  the  more  I  liked  him,  but  I  think  I 
never  fully  understood  him.  No  one  seemed 
to  know  him  quite  so  well  as  that. 

Once  I  had  a  little  private  talk  regarding 
him  with  the  senior  of  the  firm  for  which  he 
worked.  Mr.  Clark,  just  prior  to  my  call, 
had  gone  to  lunch — would  be  back  in  half  an 
hour.  Would  I  wait  there  in  the  office  until 
his  return?  Certainly.  And  the  chatty  senior 
entertained  me  : — Queer  fellow — Mr.  Clark  I 
— as  his  father  was  before  him.  Used  to  be  a 
member  of  the  firm — his  father  was  ;  in  fact, 
founded  the  business — made  a  fortune  at  it — 
failed,  for  an  unfortunate  reason,  and  went  up 
the  flume.  Paid  every  dollar  that  he  owed, 
however,  sacrificing  the  very  home  that  shel- 


ECCENTRIC    MR.    CLARK.  2O/ 

tered  his  wife  and  children — but  never  rallied. 
He  had  quite  a  family  then?  Oh,  yes;  had 
a  family — not  a  large  one,  but  a  bright  one — 
only  they  all  seemed  more  or  less  unfortunate. 
The  father  was  unfortunate — very,  and  died 
so,  leaving  his  wife  and  two  boys — the  older 
son  much  like  the  father — splendid  business 
capacities, but  lacked  will — couldn't  resist  some 
things — even  weaker  than  the  father  in  that 
regard,  and  died  at  half  his  age.  But  the 
younger  brother — our  Mr.  Clark — remained, 
and  he  was  sterling — "  straight  goods  "  in  all 
respects.  Lived  with  his  mother — was  her 
sole  support.  A  proud  woman,  Mrs.  Clark — 
a  proud  woman,  with  a  broken  spirit — with 
drawn  entirely  from  the  world,  and  had  been 
for  years  and  years.  The  Clarks,  as  had 
been  mentioned,  were  all  peculiar — even  the 
younger  Mr.  Clark,  our  friend,  I  had  doubt 
less  noticed  was  an  odd  genius,  but  he  had 
stamina — something  solid  about  him,  for  all 
his  eccentricities,  could  be  relied  upon.  Had 
been  with  the  house  there  since  a  boy  of 
twelve— took  him  for  the  father's  sake  ;  had 
never  missed  a  day's  time  in  any  line  of  work 
that  ever  had  been  given  in  his  charge — was 
weakly-looking,  too.  Had  worked  his  way 
from  the  cellar  up — from  the  least  pay  to 
the  highest — had  saved  enough  to  buy  and 


2O8  ECCENTRIC    MK..   CLARK. 

pay  for  a  comfortable  house  for  his  mother 
and  himself,  and  had  always  maintained  the 
expense  of  a  maid-servant  for  the  mother. 
Yet,  with  all  this  burden  on  his  shoulders,  the 
boy  had  worried  through  some  way,  with  a 
jolly  smile  and  a  good  word  for  every  one. 
"A  boy,  sir,"  the  enthusiastic  senior  con 
cluded,  "A  boy,  sir,  that  never  was  a  boy, 
and  never  had  a  taste  of  genuine  boyhood  in 
his  life — no  more  than  he  ever  took  a  taste  of 
whisky,  and  you  couldn't  get  that  in  him 
with  a  funnel !  " 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Clark  himself  appeared , 
and  in  a  particularly  happy  frame  of  mind. 
For  an  hour  the  delighted  senior  and  myself 
sat  laughing  at  the  fellow's  quaint  conceits 
and  witty  sayings,  the  conversation  at  last 
breaking  up  with  an  abrupt  proposition  from 
Mr.  Clark  that  I  remain  in  the  city  over  night 
and  accompany  him  to  the  theater,  an  invita 
tion  I  rather  eagerly  accepted.  Mr.  Clark, 
thanking  me,  and  pivoting  himself  around  on 
his  high  stool,  with  a  mechanical  "  Good  af 
ternoon  ! "  was  at  once  submerged  in  his 
books,  while  the  senior,  following  me  out  and 
stepping  into  a  carriage  that  stood  waiting  for 
him  at  the  curb,  waived  me  adieu,  and  was 
driven  away.  I  turned  my  steps  up  street,  but 
remembering  that  my  friend  had  fixed  no 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  2OQ 

place  to  meet  me  in  the  evening,  I  stepped 
back  into  the  store-room  and  again  pushed 
open  the  glass-door  of  the  office. 

Mr.  Clark  still  sat  on  the  high  stool  at  his 
desk,  his  back  toward  the  door,  and  his  ledger 
spread  out  before  him. 

"Mr.  Clark!"  I  called. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  Mr.  Clark !  "  I  called  again  in  an  ele 
vated  key. 

He  did  not  stir. 

I  paused  a  moment,  then  went  over  to  him, 
letting  my  hand  drop  lightly  on  his  arm. 

Still  no  response.  I  only  felt  the  shoulder 
heave,  as  with  a  long-drawn  quavering  sigh, 
then  heard  the  regular  though  labored  breath 
ing  of  a  weary  man  that  slept. 

I  had  not  the  heart  to  waken  him  ;  but,  lift 
ing  the  still  moistened  pen  from  his  uncon 
scious  fingers,  I  wrote  where  I  might  be  found 
at  eight  that  evening,  folded  and  addressed  the 
note,  and,  laying  it  on  the  open  page  before 
him,  turned  quietly  away. 

"Poor  man!*'  I  mused  compassionately, 
with  a  touch  of  youthful  sentiment  affecting 
me.  "Poor  man!  Working  himself  into  his 
very  grave,  and  with  never  a  sign  or  murmur 
of  complaint — worn  and  weighed  down  with 

H 


2IO  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

the  burden  of  his  work,  and  yet  with  a  noble 
ness  of  spirit  and  resolve  that  still  conceals 
behind  glad  smiles  and  laughing  words  the 
cares  that  lie  so  heavily  upon  him  !  " 

The  long  afternoon  went  by  at  last,  and  even 
ing  came  ;  and,  as  promptly  as  my  note  re 
quested,  the  jovial  Mr.  Clark  appeared,  laugh 
ing  heartily,  as  we  walked  off  down  the  street, 
at  my  explanation  of  the  reason  I  had  written 
my  desires  instead  of  verbally  addressing 
him ;  and  laughing  still  louder  when  I  told 
him  of  my  fears  that  he  was  overworking 
himself. 

"  Oh,  no,  my  friend,"  he  answered  gayly ; 
"there's  no  occasion  for  anxiety  on  that  ac 
count. — But  the  fact  is,  old  man,"  he  went  on, 
half-apologetically,  "the  fact  is,  I  haVen't 
been  so  overworked,  of  late,  as  over  wakeful. 
There's  something  in  the  night,  I  think,  that 
does  it.  Do  you  know  that  the  night  is  a 
great  mystery  to  me — a  great  mystery  !  And 
it  seems  to  be  growing  on  me  all  the  time. 
There's  the  trouble.  The  night  to  me  is  like 
some  vast,  incomprehensible  being.  When  I 
write  the  name  '  night '  I  instinctively  write  it 
with  a  capital.  And  I  like  my  nights  deep, 
and  darjc  and  swarthy,  don't  you  know.  Now 
some  like  clear  and  starry  nights,  but  they're 
too  pale  for  me — too  weak  and  fragile  alto- 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  211 

.gether !  They're  popular  with  the  masses, 
of  course,  these  blue-eyed,  golden-haired, 
*  moonlight-on-the-lake '  nights  ;  but,  some 
way,  I  don't  '  stand  in '  with  them.  My  fa 
vorite  night  is  the  pronounced  brunette — the 
darker  the  better.  To-night  is  one  of  my 
kind,  and  she's  growing  more  and  more  like 
it  all  the  time.  If  it  were  not  for  depriving 
you  of  the  theater,  I'd  rather  just  drift  off  now 
in  the  deepening  gloom  till  swallowed  up  in 
it — lost  utterly.  Come  with  me,  anyhow!" 

"  Gladly,"  I  answered,  catching  something 
of  his  own  enthusiasm  ;  "I  myself  prefer  it  to 
the  play." 

"  I  heartily  congratulate  you  on  your  taste," 
he  said,  diving  violently  for  my  hand  and 
wringing  it.  "Oh,  it's  going  to  be  grimly 
glorious  ! — a  depth  of  darkness  one  can  wade 
out  into,  and  kneed  it  in  his  hands  like  dough  !" 
And  he  laughed,  himself,  at  this  grotesque 
conceit. 

And  so  we  walked — for  hours.  Our  talk — 
or,  rather,  my  friend's  talk — lulled  and  soothed 
at  last  into  a  calmer  flow,  almost  solemn  in  its 
tone,  and  yet  fretted  with  an  occasional  wild- 
ness  of  utterance  and  expression. 

Half  consciously  I  had  been  led  by  my  com 
panion,  who  for  an  hour  had  been  drawing 
closer  to  me  as  we  walked.  His  arm,  thrust 


212  ECCENTRIC    MR.    CLARK. 

through  my  own,  clung  almost  affectionately  „ 
We  were  now  in  some  strange  suburb  of  the 
city,  evidently,  too,  in  a  low  quarter,  for  from 
the  windows  of  such  business  rooms  and  shops 
as  bore  any  evidence  of  respectability  the 
lights  had  been  turned  out  and  the  doors 
locked  for  the  night.  Only  a  gruesome  green 
light  was  blazing  in  a  little  drug  store  just  op 
posite,  while  at  our  left,  as  we  turned  the  cor 
ner,  a  tumble-down  saloon  sent  out  upon  the 
night  a  mingled  sound  of  clicking  billiard- 
balls,  discordant  voices — the  harsher  raspings 
of  a  violin,  together  with  the  sullen  plunkings 
of  a  banjo. 

"  I  must  leave  you  here  for  a  minute,"  said 
my  friend,  abruptly  breaking  a  long  silence, 
and  loosening  my  arm.  "  The  druggist  over 
there  is  a  patron  of  our  house,  and  I  am  re 
minded  of  a  little  business  I  have  with  him. 
He  is  about  closing,  too,  and  I'll  see  him  now, 
as  I  may  not  be  down  this  way  again  soon. 
No  ;  you  wait  here  for  me — right  here,"  and 
he  playfully  but  firmly  pushed  me  back,  ran 
across  the  street  and  entered  the  store. 
Through  the  open  door  I  saw  him  shake  hands 
with  the  man  that  stood  behind  the  counter, 
and  stand  talking  in  the  same  position  for 
some  minutes — both  still  clasping  hands,  as  it 
seemed ;  but  as  I  mechanically  bent  with 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  213 

closer  scrutiny,  the  druggist  seemed  to  be  ex 
amining  the  hand  of  Mr.  Clark  and  working 
at  it,  as  though  picking  at  a  splinter  in  the 
palm — I  could  not  quite  determine  what  was 
being  done,  for  a  glass  showcase  blurred  an 
otherwise  clear  view  of  the  arms  of  both  from 
the  elbows  down.  Then  they  came  forward, 
Mr.  Clark  arranging  his  cuffs,  and  the  drug 
gist  wrapping  up  some  minute  article  he  took 
from  an  upper  showcase,  and  handing  it  to 
my  friend,  who  placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  his 
vest  and  turned  away.  At  this  moment  my 
attention  was  withdrawn  by  an  extra  tumult 
of  jeers  and  harsh  laughter  in  the  saloon,  from 
the  door  of  which,  even  as  my  friend  turned 
from  the  door  opposite,  a  drunken  woman 
reeled,  and,  staggering  round  the  corner  as  my 
friend  came  up,  fell  violently  forward  on  the 
pavement,  not  ten  steps  in  our  advance.  In 
stinctively,  we  both  sprang  to  her  aid,  and, 
bending  over  the  senseless  figure,  peered  cu 
riously  in  the  bruised  and  bleeding  features. 
My  friend  was  trembling  with  excitement.  He 
clutched  wildly  at  the  limp  form,  trying,  but 
vainly,  to  lift  the  woman  to  her  feet.  "  Why 
don't  you  take  hold  of  her?"  he  whispered 
hoarsely.  "  Help  me  with  her — quick  !  quick  I 
Lift  her  up!"  I  obeyed  without  a  word, 


214  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

though  with  a  shudder  of  aversion  as  a  drop 
of  hot  blood  stung  me  on  the  hand. 

"  Now  draw  her  arm  about  your  shoulder 
— this  way — and  hold  it  so  !  And  now  your 
other  arm  around  her  waist — quick,  man,, 
quick,  as  you  yourself  will  want  God's  arm 
about  you  when  you  fail !  Now,  come  !"  And 
with  no  other  word  we  hurried  with  our  bur 
den  up  the  empty  darkness  of  the  street. 

I  was  utterly  bewildered  with  it  all,  but 
something  kept  me  silent.  And  so  we  hurried 
on,  and  on,  and  on,  our  course  directed  by  my 
now  wholly  reticent  companion.  Where  he 
was  going — what  his  purpose  was,  I  could  but 
vaguely  surmise.  I  only  recognized  that  his- 
intentions  were  humane,  which  fact  was  em 
phasized  by  the  extreme  caution  he  took  to- 
avoid  the  two  or  three  late  pedestrians  that 
passed  us  on  our  way  as  we  stood  crowded  in 
concealment — once  behind  a  low  shed — once 
in  an  entry  way,  and  once,  at  the  distant  rat 
tle  of  a  police  whistle,  we  hurried  through  the 
blackness  of  a  narrow  alley  into  the  silent 
street  beyond.  And  on  up  this  we  passed, 
until  at  last  we  paused  at  the  gateway  of  a 
cottage  on  our  left.  On  to  the  door  of  that 
we  went,  my  friend  first  violently  jerking  the 
bell,  then  opening  the  door  with  a  night-key, 
and  with  me  lifting  the  still  senseless  woman 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  215 

through  the  ball  into   a  dimly-lighted  room 

O  w  O 

upon  the  right,  and  laying  her  upon  a  clean, 
white  bed  that  glimmered  in  the  corner.  He 
reached  and  turned  the  gas  on  in  a  flaring  jet, 
and  as  he  did  so,  "This  is  my  home,"  he 
whispered,  "  and  this  woman  is — my  mother  !" 
He  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  her, 
as  he  spoke.  He  laid  his  quivering  lips 
against  the  white  hair  and  the  ruddy  wound 
upon  the  brow  ;  then  dappled  with  his  kisses 
the  pale  face,  and  stroked,  and  petted,  and 
caressed  the  faded  hands.  "  O,  God!"  he 
moaned,  "  if  I  might  only  weep  !  " 

The  steps  of  some  one  coming  down  the 
stair  aroused  him.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the 
door,  and  threw  it  open.  It  was  the  woman 
servant.  He  simply  pointed  to  the  form  upon 
the  bed. 

"Oh,  sir!"  exclaimed  the  frightened  wo 
man,  "  what  has  happened?  What  has  hap 
pened  to  my  poor,  dear  mistress?  " 

"  Why  did  you  let  her  leave  the  house?" 

"  She  sent  me  away,  sir.  I  never  dreamed 
that  she  was  going  out  again.  She  told  me 
she  was  very  sleepy  and  wanted  to  retire,  and 
I  helped  her  to  undress  before  I  went.  But 
she  ain't  bad  hurt,  is  she?"  she  continued, 
stooping  over  the  still  figure  and  tenderly 
smoothing  back  the  disheveled  hair.  "  It's 


2l6  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

only  the  cheek  bruised  and  the  forehead  cut 
a  little — it's  the  blood  that  makes  it  look  like 
a  bad  hurt.  See,  when  I  bathe  it,  it  is  not 
a  bad  hurt,  sir.  She's  just  been — she's  just 
worn  out,  poor  thing — and  she's  asleep — that's 
all." 

He  made  no  answer  to  the  woman's  speech, 
but  turned  toward  me.  "  Five  doors  from 
here,"  he  said,  "  and  to  your  left,  as  you  go 
out,  you  will  find  the  residence  of  Dr.  Wor- 
rel.  Go  to  him  for  me,  and  tell  him  he  is 
wanted  here  at  once.  Tell  him  my  mother  is 
much  worse.  He  will  understand.  I  would 
go  myself,  but  must  see  about  arranging  for 
your  comfort  upon  your  return,  for  you  will 
not  leave  me  till  broad  daylirrht — you  must 
not!"  I  bowed  in  silent  acceptance  of  his 
wishes,  and  turned  upon  my  errand. 

Fortunately,  the  Doctor  was  at  home,  and 
returned  at  once  with  me  to  my  friend,  where, 
after  a  careful  examination  of  his  patient,  he 
assured  the  anxious  son  that  the  wounds  were 
only  slight,  and  that  her  unconscious  condi 
tion  was  simply  "the  result  of  over-stimula 
tion,  perhaps,"  as  he  delicately  put  it.  She 
would  doubtless  waken  in  her  usual  rational 
state — an  occurrence  really  more  to  be  feared 
than  desired,  since  her  peculiar  sensitiveness 
might  feel  too  keenly  the  unfortunate  happen- 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

ing.  "Anyway,"  he  continued,  "I  will  call 
early  in  the  morning,  and,  in  the  event  of  her 
awakening  before  that  time,  I  will  leave  a 
sedative  with  Mary,  with  directions  she  will 
attend.  She  will  remain  here  at  her  side. 
And  as  to  yourself,  Mr.  Clark,"  the  Doctor 
went  on,  in  an  anxious  tone,  as  he  marked 
the  haggard  face  and  hollow  eyes,  "I  insist 
that  you  retire.  You  must  rest,  sir — worry 
ing  for  the  past  week  as  you  have  been  doing 
is  telling  on  you  painfully.  You  need  rest — 
and  you  must  take  it." 

"And  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  submissively. 
Stooping  again,  he  clasped  the  sleeping  face 
between  his  hands  and  kissed  it  tenderly. 
"  Good  night !  "  I  heard  him  whisper — "  Good 
night — good  night!"  He  turned,  and,  mo 
tioning  for  me  to  follow,  opened  the  door — 
"  Doctor,  good  night!  Good  night,  Mary!" 

He  led  the  way  to  his  own  room  up-stairs. 
"And  now,  my  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  waved 
me  to  an  easy  chair,  "  I  have  but  two  other  fa 
vors  to  ask  of  you :  The  first  is,  that  you  talk 
to  me,  or  read  to  me,  or  tell  me  fairy  tales,  or 
riddles — anything,  so  that  you  keep  it  up  in 
cessantly,  and  never  leave  off  till  you  find  me 
fast  asleep.  Then,  in  the  next  room  you  will 
find  a  comfortable  bed.  Leave  me  sleeping 
here  and  you  sleep  there.  And  the  second 


2l8  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

favor,"  he  continued,  with  a  slow  smile  and 
an  affected  air  of  great  deliberation — "  Oh, 
well,  I'll  not  ask  the  second  favor  of  you  now. 
I'll  keep  it  for  you  till  to-morrow."  And  as 
he  turned  laughingly  away  and  paced  three 
or  four  times  across  the  room,  in  his  step,  his 
gait,  the  general  carriage  of  the  figure,  I  was 
curiously  reminded  of  the  time,  long  years 
before,  that  I  had  watched  him  from  the  dooi 
of  the  caboose,  as  he  walked  up  the  su 
burban  street  till  the  movement  of  the  train 
had  hidden  him  from  view. 

"Well,  what  will  you  do?"  he  asked,  as  he 
wheeled  a  cozy-cushioned  lounge  close  beside 
my  chair,  and,  removing  his  coat,  flung  him 
self  languidly  down.  "Will  you  talk  or  read 
to  me?  " 

"  I  will  read,"  I  said,  as  I  picked  up  a  book 
to  begin  my  vigil. 

"  Hold  just  a  minute  then,"  he  said,  draw 
ing  a  card  and  pencil  from  his  vest.  "  I  may 

want  to  jot  down  a  note  or  two .  Now,  go 

ahead." 

I  had  been  reading  in  a  low  voice  steadily 
for  perhaps  an  hour,  my  companion  never 
stirring  from  his  first  position,  but  although 
my  eyes  were  never  lifted  from  the  book,  I 
knew  by  the  occasional  sound  of  his  pencil  that 
he  had  not  yet  dropped  asleep.  And  so,  without 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  219 

a  pause,  I  read  monotonously  on.  At  last  he 
turned  heavily.  I  paused.  With  his  eyes 
closed  he  groped  his  hand  across  my  knees 
and  grasped  my  own.  "  Go  on  with  the  read 
ing,"  he  said  drowsily — "  Guess  I'm  going  to 
sleep  now — but  you  go  right  on  with  the  story 

.      Good    night !  "     His    hand    fumbled 

lingeringly  a  moment,  then  was  withdrawn 
and  folded  with  the  other  on  his  breast. 

I  read  on  in  a  lower  tone  an  hour  longer, 
then  paused  again  to  look  at  my  companion. 
He  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  although  the 
features  in  their  repose  appeared  unusually- 
pale,  a  wholesome  perspiration,  as  it  seemed,, 
pervaded  all  the  face,  while  the  breathing 
though  labored  was  regular.  I  bent  above 
him  to  lower  the  pillow  for  his  head,  and  the 
movement  half  aroused  him,  as  I  thought  at 
first,  for  he  muttered  something  as  though  im 
patiently,  but  listening  to  catch  his  mutter- 
ings,  I  knew  that  he  was  dreaming.  "  It's 
what  killed  father,"  I  heard  him  say.  "And 
it's  what  killed  Tom,"  he  went  on  in  a  smoth 
ered  voice;  "killed  both — killed  both!  It 
shan't  kill  me ;  I  swore  it.  I  could  bottle 
it  —  case  after  case  —  and  never  touch  a 
drop.  If  you  never  take  the  first  drink,  you'll 
never  want  it.  Mother  taught  me  that.  What 
made  her  ever  take  the  first?  Mother!  Moth- 


22O  ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK. 

er !  When  I  get  to  be  a  man,  I'll  buy  her  all 
the  fine  things  she  used  to  have  when  father 
was  alive.  Maybe  I  can  buy  back  the  old 
home,  with  the  roses  up  the  walk  and  the  sun 
shine  slanting  in  the  hall."  And  so  the 
sleeper  murmured  on.  Sometimes  the  voict 
was  thick  and  discordant,  sometimes  low  anc 
clear  and  tuneful  as  a  child's.  "  Never  toucl: 
whisky  !"  he  went  on  almost  harshly.  "  Nevei 
— never  !  never  !  Drop  in  the  street  first.  I  did. 
The  doctor  will  come  then,  and  he  knows 
what  you  want.  Not  whisky.  Medicine  ;  the 
kind  that  makes  you  warm  again — makes  you 
want  to  live  ;  but  don't  ever  dare  touch  whisky. 
Let  other  people  drink  it  if  they  want  it.  Sell 
it  to  them  ;  they'll  get  it  anyhow ;  but  don't 
you  touch  it !  It  killed  your  father,  it  killed 
Torn^  and — oh  ! — Mother  !  Mother  !  Mother  !" 
Tears  actually  teemed  from  underneath  the 
sleeper's  lids,  and  glittered  down  the  pallid 
and  distorted  features.  "There's  a  medicine 
that's  good  for  you  when  you  want  whisky," 
he  went  on.  "  When  you  are  weak,  and 
everybody  else  is  strong — and  always  when 
the  flag-stones  give  way  beneath  your  feet, 
and  the  long  street  undulates  and  wavers  as 
you  walk  ;  why,  that's  a  sign  for  you  to  take 
that  medicine — and  take  it  quick !  Oh,  it 
will  warm  you  till  the  little  pale  blue  streaks 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK.  221 

in  your  white  hands  will  bulge  out  again  with 
tingling  blood,  and  it  will  start  up  from  its 
stagnant  pools  and  leap  from  vein  to  vein  till 
it  reaches  your  being's  furthest  height  and 
droops  and  falls  and  folds  down  over  icy 
brow  and  face  like  a  soft  veil  moistened  with 
pure  warmth.  Ah  !  it  is  so  deliriously  sweet 
and  restful!" 

I  heard  a  moaning  in  the  room  below,  and 
then  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  tapping  at  the 
door.  It  was  Mary.  Mrs.  Clark  had  awakened 
and  was  crying  for  her  son.  "But  we  must 
not  waken  him."  I  said.  "  Give  Mrs.  Clark 
the  medicine  the  doctor  left  for  her — that  will 
quiet  her." 

"  But  she  won't  take  it,  sir.  She  won't  do 
anything  at  all  for  me — and  if  Mr.  Clark 
could  only  come  to  her,  for  just  a  minute,  she 
would — " 

The  woman's  speech  was  broken  by  a 
shrill  cry  in  the  hall,  and  then  the  thud  of 
naked  feet  on  the  stairway.  "  I  want  my  boy 
— my  boy ! "  wailed  the  hysterical  woman 
from  without. 

"Go  to  your  mistress — quick,"  I  said, 
sternly,  pushing  the  woman  from  the  room. 
"  Take  her  back ;  I  will  come  down  to  your 
assistance  in  a  moment."  Then  I  turned 
hastily  to  see  if  the  sleeper  had  been  disturbed 


222  ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

by  the  woman's  cries,  but  all  was  peaceful 
with  him  yet,  and  so,  throwing  a  coverlet 
over  him,  I  drew  the  door  to  silently  and  went 
below. 

I  found  the  wretched  mother  in  an  almost 
frenzied  state,  and  jjatherincf  in  a  violence  that 

*  o  o 

alarmed  me  to  that  extent  I  thought  it  best  to 
again  summon  the  physician ;  and  bidding 
the  servant  not  to  leave  her  for  an  instant,  I 
hurried  for  the  help  so  badly  needed.  This 
time  the  doctor  was  long  delayed,  although 
he  joined  me  with  all  possible  haste,  and  with 
all  speed  accompanied  me  back  to  the  un 
happy  home.  Entering  the  door  our  ears 
were  greeted  with  a  shriek  that  came  piercing 
down  the  hall  till  the  very  echoes  shuddered 
as  with  fear.  It  was  the  patient's  voice  shrill 
ing  from  the  sleeper's  room  upstairs.  "  O, 
God  !  My  boy  !  My  boy  !  I  want  my  boy, 
and  he  will  not  waken  for  me  !  "  An  instant 
later  we  were  both  upon  the  scene. 

The  woman  in  her  frenzy  had  broken  from 
the  servant  to  find  her  son,  and  she  had  found 
him. 

She  had  wound  her  arms  about  him,  and 
had  dragged  his  still  sleeping  form  upon  the 
floor.  He  would  not  waken,  even  though  she 
gripped  him  to  her  heart  and  shrieked  her 
very  soul  out  in  his  ears.  He  would  not  wak- 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK. 

en.  The  face,  though  whiter  than  her  own, 
betokened  only  utter  rest  and  peace.  We 
drew  her,  limp  and  voiceless,  from  his  side. 
"We  are  too  late,"  the  doctor  whispered,  lift 
ing  with  his  finger  one  of  the  closed  lids,  and 
letting  it  drop  to  again — "See  here!"  He 
had  been  feeling  at  the  wrist ;  and,  as  he 
spoke,  he  slipped  the  sleeve  up,  baring  the 
sleeper's  arm.  From  wrist  to  elbow  it  was 
livid  purple,  and  pitted  and  scarred  with 
minute  wounds — some  scarcely  sealed  with 
clotted  blood. 

' '  In  heaven's  name,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Morphine,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  the  hy 
podermic.  And  here,"  he  explained,  lifting 
the  other  hand,  "here  is  a  folded  card  with 
your  name  at  the  top." 

I  snatched  it  from  him,  and  I  read,  written 
in  faint  but  rounded  characters  : 

"  I  like  to  hear  your  voice.  It  sounds  kind. 
It  is  like  a  far-off  tune.  To  drop  asleep, 
though,  as  I  am  doing  now,  is  sweeter  music — 

but  read  on .  I  have  taken  something  to 

make  me  sleep,  and  by  mistake  I  have  taken 
too  much  ;  but  you  will  read  right  on.  Now, 
mind  you,  this  is  not  suicide,  as  God  listens  to 
the  whisper  of  this  pencil  as  I  write !  I  did 
it  by  mistake.  For  years  and  years  I  have 


224  ECCENTRIC    MR.    CLARK. 

taken  the  same  thing.  This  time  I  took  too 
much — much  more  than  I  meant  to — but  I  am 
glad.  This  is  the  second  favor  I  would  ask: 
Go  to  my  employers  to-morrow,  show  them 
this  handwriting,  and  say  I  know  for  my  sake 
they  will  take  charge  of  my  affairs  and  admin 
ister  all  my  estate  in  the  best  way  suited  to  my 
mother's  needs.  Good-bye,  my  friend — I  can 
only  say  '  good  night '  to  you  when  I  shall 
take  your  hand  an  instant  later  and  turn  away 
forever." 

Through  tears  I  read  it  all,  and  ending  with 
his  name  in  full,  I  turned  and  looked  down  on 
the  face  of  this  man  that  I  had  learned  to  love, 
and  the  full  measure  of  his  needed  rest  was 
with  him  ;  and  the  rainy  day  that  glowered 
and  drabbled  at  the  eastern  windows  of  the 
room  was  as  drearily  stared  back  at  by  a  hope 
less  woman's  dull,  demented  eyes. 


THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY; 


THE  BROOK.] 

Little  brook!    Little  brook! 
You  have  such  a  happy  look — 

Such  a  very  merry  manner,  as  you  swerve  and  curve  and  crook— 
And  your  ripples,  one  and  one, 
Reach  each  other's  hands  and  run 

Like  laughing  little  children  in  the  sun! 

Little  brook,  sing  to  me: 
Sing  about  a  bumblebee 

That  tumbled  from  a  lily-bell  and  grumbled  mumblingly, 
Because  he  wet  the  film 
Of  his  wings,  and  had  to  swim, 

While  the  water-bugs  raced  round  and  laughed  at  him/ 

Little  brook — sing  a  song 
Of  a  leaf  that  failed  along 

Down  the  golden-braided  center  of  your  current  swift  and  strong. 
And  a  dragonfly  that  lit 
On  the  lilting  rim  of  it, 

And  rode  away  and  wasn't  scared  a  bit. 

And  sing — how  oft  in  glee 
Came  a  truant  boy  like  me, 

Who  loved  to  lean  and  listen  to  your  lilting  melody, 
Till  the  gurgle  and  refrain 
Of  your  music  in  his  brain 

Wrought  a  happiness  as  keen  to  him  as  pain. 

Little  brook — laugh  and  leap  ! — 
Do  not  let  the  dreamer  weep: 

Sing  him  all  the  songs  of  summer  till  he  sink  in  softest  sleep  f 
And  then  sing  soft  and  low 
Through  his  dreams  of  long  ago — 
Sing  back  to  him  the  rest  he  used  to  know ! 
(226) 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 

HIS  advent  in  our  little  country  town  was 
at  once  abrupt  and  novel.  Why  he 
came,  when  he  came,  or  how  he  came,  we 
boys  never  knew.  My  first  remembrance  of 
him  is  of  his  sudden  appearance  in  the  midst 
•of  a  game  of  "Antn'y-over,"  in  which  a  dozen 
boys  beside  myself  were  most  enthusiastically 
•engaged.  The  scene  of  the  exciting  contest 
was  the  center  of  the  main  street  of  the  town, 
the  elevation  over  which  we  tossed  the  ball 
being  the  skeleton  remains  of  a  grand  trium 
phal  arch,  left  as  a  sort  of  cadaverous  reminder 
of  some  recent  political  demonstration.  Al 
though  I  recall  the  boy's  external  appearance 
upon  that  occasion  with  some  vagueness,  I 
vividly  remember  that  his  trousers  were  much 
too  large  and  long,  and  that  his  heavy,  flap 
ping  coat  was  buttonless,  and  very  badly  worn 
and  damaged  at  the  sleeves  and  elbows — I  re 
member,  too,  with  even  more  distinctness,  the 
hat  he  wore.  It  was  a  high,  silk,  bell-crowned 
hat — a  man's  hat  and  a  veritable  "plug" — 
(227) 


228  "  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY." 

not  a  new  and  shiny  "  plug,"  by  any  meansr 
but  still  of  dignity  and  gloss  enough  to  furnish 
a  noticeable  contrast  to  the  other  appertain- 
ments  of  its  wearer's  wardrobe.  In  fact,  it 
was  through  this  latter  article  of  dress  that 
the  general  attention  of  the  crowd  came  at 
last  to  be  particularly  drawn  to  its  unfortunate' 
possessor,  who,  evidently  directed  by  an  old- 
time  instinct,  had  mechanically  thrust  the  in 
verted  castor  under  a  falling  ball,  and  the  ball,, 
being  made  of  yarn  wrapped  tightly  over  a 
green  walnut,  and  dropping  from  an  uncom 
mon  height,  had  gone  through  the  hat  like  a 
round  shot. 

Naturally  enough  much  merriment  was  oc 
casioned  by  the  singular  mishap,  and  the 
victim  of  the  odd  occurrence  seemed  himself 
inclined  to  join  in  the  boisterous  laughter,  and 
make  the  most  of  his  ridiculous  misfortune. 
He  pulled  the  hat  back  over  his  tousled  head, 
and  with  the  flapping  crown  of  it  still  cling 
ing  by  one  frayed  hinge,  he  capered  into  a 
grotesquely-executed  jig  that  made  the  clam 
orous  crowd  about  him  howl  again. 

"Wo  !  what  a  hat  I"  cried  Billy  Kinzey,  de 
risively,  and  with  a  palpably  rancorous  twinge 
of  envy  in  his  heart — for  Billy  was  the  bad 
boy  of  our  town,  and  would  doubtless  have 
enjoyed  the  strange  boy's  sudden  notoriety  in 


"  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY." 

thus  being  able  to  convert  disaster  into  posi 
tive  fun.  "Wo!  what  a  hat!"  reiterated 
Billy,  making  a  feint  to  knock  it  from  the 
fooy's  head  as  the  still  capering  figure  pirou 
etted  past  him.  The  boy  caught  the  motion 
and  whirled  suddenly  in  a  backward  course 
and  danced  past  his  reviler  again,  this  time 
much  nearer  than  before.  "  Better  try  it," 
he  said,  in  a  low,  half-laughing  tone  that  no 
one  heard  but  Billy  and  myself.  He  was  out 
of  range  in  an  instant,  still  laughing  as  he 
went. 

"  Dern  him!"  said  Billy,  with  stifling 
anger,  clutching  his  fist  and  leaving  one 
knuckle  protruding  in  a  very  wicked-looking 
manner.  "Dern  him!  He  better  not  sass 
me !  He's  afeard  to  come  past  here  agin  and 
.-say  that !  I'll  knock  his  dern  ole  '  stove-pipe  ' 
in  the  middle  o'  nex'  week !  " 

"You  will,  hey?"  queried  a  revolving 
voice,  as  the  boy  twirled  past  again — this  time 
so  near  that  Billy  felt  his  taunting  breath 
blown  in  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  will,  hey!"  said  Billy,  viciously; 
and  with  a  side-sweeping,  flat-handed  lick 
that  sounded  like  striking  a  rusty  sheet  of 
tin,  the  crownless  "plug"  went  spinning  into 
the  gutter,  while,  as  suddenly,  the  assaulted 
little  stranger,  with  a  peculiarly  pallid  smile 


230  "THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 

about  his  lips,  and  an  electric  glitter  in  his 
eye,  adroitly  flung  his  left  hand  forward r 
smiting  his  insulter  such  a  blow  'n  the  region 
of  the  brow  that  the  unguarded  Billy  went 
tumbling  backward,  his  plucky  assailant 
prancing  wildly  around  his  prostrate  form. 

"  O  !  come  and  see  me  !"  snarled  the  strange 
boy,  in  a  contemptuous  tone,  cocking  his  fists- 
up  in  a  scientific  manner,  and  dropping  into  a 
stoop-shouldered  swagger  that  would  have 
driven  envy  into  the  heart  of  a  bullying  hack- 
driver.  "Git  the  bloke  on  his  pins!"  he 
sneered,  turning  to  the  crowd.  "  'Spose  I'm 
goin'  to  hit  a  man  w'en  he's  down?" 

But  his  antagonist  needed  no  such  assist 
ance.  Stung  with  his  unlooked-for  downfall, 
bleeding  from  the  first  blow  ever  given  him 
by  mortal  boy,  and  goaded  to  absolute  frenzy 
by  the  taunts  of  his  swaggering  enemy,  Billy 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  a  moment  later  had 
succeeded  in  closing  with  the  boy  in  a  rough- 
and-tumble  fight, 'in  which  his  adversary  was 
at  disadvantage,  being  considerably  less  in 
size,  hampered,  too,  with  his  loose,  unbut 
toned  coat  and  baggy  trousers.  But,  for  all, 
he  did  some  very  efficient  work  in  the  way  of 
a  deft  and  telling  blow  or  two  upon  the  nose 
of  his  overpowering  foe,  who  sat  astride  oi 


"THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY."  231 

his  wriggling  body,  but  wholly  unable  to  get 
in  a  lick. 

"  Dern  you  !"  said  Bilty,  with  his  hand  grip 
ping  the  boy's  throat,  "  holler  'nough  !" 

"Holler  nothin'  ! "  gurgled  the  boy,  with 
his  eyes  fairly  starting  from  his  head. 

"  O,  let  him  up,  Billy,"  called  a  compas 
sionate  voice  from  the  excited  crowd. 

"  Holler  'nough  and  I  will,"  said  Billy,  in  a 
tragic  whisper  in  the  boy's  ear.  "  Dern  ye  I 
holler  'calf-rope!'" 

The  boy  only  shook  his  head  —  trembled 
convulsively — let  fall  his  eyelids,  and  lay  limp 
and,  to  all  appearances,  unconscious. 

The  startled  Billy  loosed  his  hold — rose 
half-way  to  his  feet — then  fiercely  pounced 
again  at  his  rival. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  ruse  had  succeeded, 
and  the  boy  was  once  more  on  his  feet. 

"You  fight  like  a  dog!"  said  the  strange 
boy  in  a  tone  of  infinite  contempt — "  and  you 
air  a  dog  !  Put  up  your  props  like  a  man  and 
come  at  me,  and  I'll  meller  your  head  till  your 
mother  won't  know  you  !  Come  on  !  I  dare 
you  !  " 

This  time,  as  Billy  started  forward  at  the 
challenge,  I  regret  to  say  that  in  his  passion 
he  snatched  up  from  the  street  a  broken  buggy- 
spoke,  before  which  war-like  weapon  the 


232  ''THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 

strange  boy  was  forced  to  warily  retreat. 
Step  by  step  he  gave  back,  and  step  by  step 
his  threatening  foe  advanced.  I  think,  per 
haps,  part  of  the  strange  boy's  purpose  in  thus 
retreating  was  to  arm  himself  with  one  of  the 
ax-handles  that  protruded  from  a  churn  stand 
ing  in  front  of  a  grocery,  toward  which  he 
slowly  backed  across  the  sidewalk.  How 
ever  that  may  be,  it  is  evident  he  took  no  note 
of  an  open  cellar-way  that  lay  behind  him, 
over  the  brink  of  which  he  deliberately  backed, 
throwing  up  his  hands  as  he  disappeared. 

We  heard  a  heavy  fall,  but  heard  no  cry. 
Some  loungers  in  the  grocery,  attracted  by 
the  clamor  of  the  throng  without,  came  to  the 
door  inquiringly  ;  one  man,  learning  what  had 
happened,  peered  down  the  stairway  of  the 
cellar,  and  called  to  ask  the  boy  if  he  was  hurt, 
which  query  was  answered  an  instant  later  by 
the  appearance  of  the  boy  himself,  his  face 
far  whiter  than  his  shirt,  and  his  lips  tremb 
ling,  but  his  teeth  clenched. 

"  Guess  I  broke  my  arm  agin,"  he  said 
briefly,  as  the  man  leaned  and  helped  him  up 
the  steps,  the  boy  sweeping  his  keen  eyes 
searchingly  over  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  "  It's 
the  right  arm,  though,"  he  continued,  glanc 
ing  at  the  injured  member  dangling  helplessly, 
at  his  side — "  This  un's  all  right  yet  I"  and 


"  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY."  233 

as  he  spoke  he  jerked  from  the  man's  assist 
ance,  wheeled  round,  and  an  instant  later,  as 
a  buggy-spoke  went  hurling  through  the  air, 
he  slapped  the  bewildered  face  of  Billy  with 
his  open  hand.  "  Damn  coward  !  "  he  said. 

Then  the  man  caught  him,  and  drew  him 
back,  and  the  "crowd  closed  in  between  the 
combatants,  following,  as  the  boy  with  the 
broken  arm  was  hurried  down  street  to  the 
doctor's  office,  where  the  door  was  immedi 
ately  closed  on  the  rabble  and  all  the  mys 
tery  within — not  an  utter  mystery,  either,  for 
three  or  four  enterprising  and  sagacious  boys 
slipped  off  from  the  crowd  that  thronged  in 
front,  and,  climbing  by  a  roundabout  way, 
and  over  a  high  board  fence  into  the  back 
yard,  secretly  posted  themselves  at  the  blinded 
window  in  the  rear  of  the  little  one-roomed 
office  and  breathlessly  awaited  advices  from 
within. 

"They  got  him  laid  out  on  the  settee," 
whispered  a  venturous  boy  who  had  leant  a 
board  against  the  window-sill  and  climbed  into 
a  position  commanding  the  enviable  advan 
tage  of  a  broken  window-pane.  "I  can  see 
him  through  a  hole  in  the  curtain.  Keep 
still !  " 

"  They  got  his  coat  off,  and  his  sleeve  rolled 
up,"  whispered  the  boy,  in  continuation — 


234  "THE  BOY  FROM  ZEEXY." 

"  and  the  doctor's  a-givin'  him  some  medicine 
in  a  tumbler.  Now  he's  a-pullin'  his  arm. 
Gee-mun-nee  !  I  can  hear  the  bones  crunch  !" 

"  Haint  he  a-cryin'  ?  "  queried  a  milk-faced 
boy,  with  very  large  blue  eyes  and  fine  white 
hair,  and  a  grieved  expression  as  he  spoke. 
"Haint  he  a-cryin'?" 

"  Well  he  haint !  "  said  the  boy  in  the  win 
dow,  with  unconscious  admiration.  "Listen  !" 

"  I  heerd  him  thist  tell  'em  'at  it  wusn't  the 
first  time  his  arm  was  broke.  Now  keep  still  !'T 
and  the  boy  in  the  window  again  bent  his  ear 
to  the  broken  pane. 

"  He  says  both  his  arms's  ben  broke,"  con 
tinued  the  boy  in  the  window — "  says  this  un 
'ats  broke  now's  ben  broke  two  times  'fore 
this  time." 

"  Dog-gone  !  haint  he  a  funny  feller  !  "  said 
the  milk-faced  boy,  with  his  big  eyes  lifted 
wistfully  to  the  boy  in  the  window. 

"  He  says  onc't  his  pap  broke  his  arm  w'en 
he  was  whippin'  him,"  whispered  the  boy  in 
the  window. 

"But  his  pa's  a  wicked  man!"  said  the 
milk-faced  boy,  in  a  dreamy,  speculative  way 
— "  'Spect  he's  a  drunkard,  er  somepin  !  " 

"  Keep  still !  "  said  the  boy  at  the  window  ; 
"they're  tryin'  to  git  him  to  tell  his  pap's 
name  and  his,  and  he  won't  do  it,  'cause  he 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEEXY."  235 

says  his  pap  comes  and  steals  him  ever'  time 
he  finds  out  where  he  is." 

The  milk-faced  boy  drew  a  long,  quavering 
breath  and  gazed  suspiciously  round  the  high 
board  fence  of  the  enclosure. 

"He  says  his  pap  used  to  keep  a  liberty- 
stable  in  Zeeny — in  Ohio  som'ers — but  he 
daresn't  stay  round  there  no  more,  'cause  he 
broke  up  there,  and  had  to  skedaddle  er  they'd 
clean  him  out.  He  says  he  haint  got  no 
mother,  ner  no  brothers,  ner  no  sisters,  ner  no 
nothin' — on'y,"  the  boy  in  the  window  added, 
with  a  very  dry  and  painful  swallow,  "he 
says  he  haint  got  nothin'  on'y  thist  the  clothes 
on  his  back  !  " 

"Yes,  and  I  bet,"  broke  in  the  milk-faced 
boy,  abruptly,  with  his  thin  lips  compressed, 
and  his  big  eyes  fixed  on  space,  "Yes,  and  I 
bet  he  can  lick  Bill  Kinzey,  ef  his  arm  is 
broke!" 

At  this  juncture  some  one  inside  coming  to 
raise  the  window,  the  boy  at  the  broken  pane 
leaped  to  the  ground,  and,  flocking  at  his  heels, 
his  frightened  comrades  bobbed  one  by  one 
over  the  horizon  of  the  high  fence,  and  were 
gone  in  an  instant. 

So  it  was  that  the  hero  of  this  sketch  came 
to  be  known  as  "The  Boy  from  Zeeny." 

The  Boy  from  Zeeny,  though  evidently  pre- 


236  "  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY." 

disposed  to  novel  and  disastrous  happenings, 
for  once,  at  least,  had  come  upon  a  streak  of 
better  fortune — for  the  doctor,  it  appeared, 
had  some  way  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and  had 
offered  him  an  asylum  at  his  own  home  and 
hearth — the  compensation  stipulated,  and  sug 
gested  by  the  boy  himself,  being  a  conscien 
tious  and  efficient  service  in  the  doctor's  sta 
ble.  Even  with  his  broken  arm  splinted  and 
bandaged,  and  supported  in  a  sling,  The  Boy 
from  Zeeny  could  be  daily  seen  loping  the 
doctor's  spirited  horse  up  the  back  alley  from 
the  stable  to  the  office,  with  the  utter  confi 
dence  and  careless  grace  of  a  Bedouin.  When, 
at  last,  the  injured  arm  was  wholly  well  again, 
the  daring  feats  of  horsemanship  of  which  the 
boy  was  capable  were  listened  to  with  incre 
dulity  by  the  "  good ' '  boys  of  the  village  school , 
who  never  played  "  hookey"  on  long  summer 
afternoons,  and,  in  consequence,  never  had  a 
chance  of  witnessing  The  Boy  from  Zeeny 
loping  up  to  the  "swimmin'-hole,"  a  mile 
from  town,  barebacked,  with  nothing  but 
a  halter,  and  his  face  turned  toward  the 
horse's  tail.  In  fact,  The  Boy  from  Zeeny 
displayed  such  a  versatility  of  accomplish 
ments,  and  those,  too,  of  a  character  but 
faintly  represented  in  the  average  boy  of  the 
country  town,  that,  for  all  the  admiration  their 


"  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY."  237 

possessor  evoked,  an  equal  envy  was  aroused 
in  many  a  youthful  breast. 

"The  boys  in  this  town's  down  on  you,'* 
said  a  cross-eyed,  freckle-faced  boy,  one  day, 
to  The.  Boy  from  Zeeny. 

The  Boy  from  Zeeny  was  sitting  in  the  alley 
window  of  the  hay-loft  of  the  doctor's  stable,, 
and  the  cross-eyed  boy  had  paused  below,  and 
with  his  noward  looking  eyes  upturned,  stood 
waiting  the  effect  of  this  intelligence. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  the  boys  in  this  town?  '* 
said  The  Boy  from  Zeeny. 

"  The  boys  in  this  town,"  repeated  the  cross 
eyed  boy,  with  a  slow,  prophetic  flourish  of 
his  head — "  The  boys  in  this  town  says  'cause 
you  come  from  Zeeny  and  blacked  Bill  Kin- 
zey's  eye,  'at  you  think  you're  goin'  to  run 
things  round  here  !  And  you'll  find  out  you 
ain't  the  bosst  o'  this  town ! "  and  the  cross 
eyed  boy  shook  his  head  again  with  dire  fore 
boding. 

"Look  here,  Cocky!"  said  The  Boy  from 
Zeeny,  trying  to  focus  a  direct  gaze  on  the 
boy's  delusive  eyes,  "  W'y  don't  you  talk 
straight  out  from  the  shoulder?  I  reckon  '  the 
boys  in  this  town,'  as  you  call  'em,  didn't  send 
you  around  here  to  tell  me  w'at  they  was  goin' 
to  do  !  But  ef  you  want  to  take  it  up  for  'em, 
and  got  any  sand  to  back  you,  jest  say  it,  and 


238  "THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 

I'll  come  down  there  and  knock  them  dern 
twisted  eyes  o'  yourn  straight  agin  ! " 

"Yes  ;  you  will !  "  muttered  the  cross-eyed 
boy,  with  dubious  articulation,  glancing  un- 
•easily  up  the  alley. 

"What?"  growled  The  Boy  from  Zeeny, 
thrusting  one  dangling  leg  further  out  the 
window,  supporting  his  weight  by  the  palms 
of  his  hands,  and  poised  as  though  about  to 
spring — "What  'id  you  say?" 

"Didn't  say  nothin',"  said  the  cross-eyed 
boy,  feebly ;  and  then,  as  a  sudden  and  most 
bewildering  smile  lit  up  his  defective  eyes,  he 
exclaimed  :  "  O  !  I  tell  you  what  le's  do  ! 
Le's  me  and  you  git  up  a  show  in  your  stable, 
and  don't  let  none  o'  the  other  boys  be  in  it ! 
I  can  turn  a  hand-spring  like  you,  and  purt' 
nigh  walk  on  my  hands  ;  and  you  can  p'form 
on  the  slack-rope — and  spraddle  out  like  the 
*  Injarubber  man' — and  hold  a  pitchfork  on 
your  chin — and  stand  up  on  a  horse  'ithout  a- 
holdin' — and  —  and — O!  ever'thing  !  "  And 
as  the  cross-eyed  boy  breathlessly  concluded 
this  list  of  strong  attractions,  he  had  The  Boy 
from  Zeeny  so  thoroughly  inoculated  with 
the  enterprise  that  he  at  once  closed  with 
the  proposition,  and  the  preparations  and  the 
practice  for  the  show  were  at  once  inaugurated. 

Three  hours  later,  an  extremely  cross-eyed 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY. ' 


239 


boy,  with  the  freckles  of  his  face  thrown  into 
vivid  relief  by  an  intense  pallor,  rushed  pant- 
ingly  into  the  doctor's  office,  with  the  fateful 
intelligence  that  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  had 
"fell  and  broke  his  arm  agin."  And  this 
time,  as  it  seemed,  the  hapless  boy  had  sur 
passed  the  seriousness  of  all  former  fractures, 
this  last,  being  of  a  compound  nature,  and 
very  painful  in  the  setting,  and  tedious  in  re 
covery  ;  the  recovery,  too,  being  anything  but 
perfect,  since  it  left  the  movement  of  the  elbow 
somewhat  restricted,  and  threw  the  little  fel 
low's  arm  in  an  unnatural  position,  with  the 
palm  of  the  hand  turned  forward  as  he  walked. 
But  for  all,  the  use  of  it  was,  to  all  appearances, 
but  little  impaired. 

Doubtless  it  was  through  such  interlude 
from  rough  service  as  these  accidents  afforded 
that  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  had  acquired  the 
meager  education  he  possessed.  The  doc 
tor's  wife,  who  had  from  the  first  been  kind  to 
him,  grew  to  like  him  very  much.  Through 
her  gentle  and  considerate  interest  he  was 
stimulated  to  study  by  the  occasional  present 
of  a  simple  volume.  Oftentimes  the  good 
woman  would  devote  an  hour  to  his  instruc 
tion  in  the  mvsteries  of  the  book's  orthogra 
phy  and  rhetoric. 

Nor  was  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  a  dull  pupil ; 


240  "  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY." 

neither  was  he  an  ungrateful  one.  lie  was 
quick  to  learn,  and  never  prouder  than  when 
a  mastered  lesson  gained  for  him  the  appro 
bation  of  his  patient  instructor. 

The  history  of  The  Boy  from  Zeeny,  such 
as  had  been  gathered  by  the  doctor  and  his 
wife,  was  corroborative  in  outline  with  the 
brief  hint  of  it  as  communicated  to  the  curious 
listeners  at  the  rear  window  of  the  doctor's 
office  on  the  memorable  day  of  the  boy's  first 
appearance  in  the  town.  He  was  without 
family,  save  a  harsh,  unfeeling  father,  who, 
from  every  evidence,  must  have  neglected 
and  abused  the  child  most  shamefully,  the 
circumstantial  proof  of  this  fact  being  evi 
denced  in  the  boy's  frank  acknowledgment 
that  he  had  repeatedly  "run  away"  from 
him,  and  his  still  firm  resolve  to  keep  his 
name  a  secret,  lest  he  might  thereby  be  traced 
to  his  present  security,  and  fall  once  more 
into  the  hands  of  his  unnatural  parent. 

Certain  it  was  that  the  interest  of  all  who 
knew  his  story  was  in  hearty  sympathy  with 
the  lad,  and  when  one  morning  it  was  ru 
mored  that  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  had  myste 
riously  disappeared,  and  the  rumor  rapidly 
developed  into  an  unquestionable  fact,  there 
was  a  universal  sense  of  regret  in  the  little 
town,  which  in  turn  resolved  itself  into  posi- 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY."  241 

tive  indignation  when  it  was  learned  from  the 
doctor  that  an  explanation,  printed  in  red 
keel  on  the  back  of  a  fragmental  bit  of  circus- 
poster,  had  been  found  folded  and  tucked 
away  in  the  buckle-straps  of  his  horse's  bridle. 
The  somewhat  remarkable  communication,  in 
sprawling  capitals,  ran  thus: 

"  PAPS  GOT  ME  AGIN.  I  HAF  TO  GO.  DAM 
HIM.  DOC  TEL  HER  TO  KEEP  MY  BOOCKS. 
GOOD  BY.  I  FED  OLE  CtlARLY.  I  FED  HIM 
OTES  AND  HA  AN  CORN.  HE  WONT  NEED  NO 
MORE  FER  A  WEAK.  AN  BRAND  TO.  DOC 
TEL  HER  GOOD  BY." 

It  was  a  curious  bit  of  composition — un 
couth,  assuredly,  and  marred,  maybe,  with 
an  unpardonable  profanity — but  it  served.  In 
the  silence  and  gloom  of  the  old  stable,  the 
doctor's  ringers  trembled  as  he  read,  and  the 
good  wife's  eyes,  peering  anxiously  above  his 
heaving  shoulder,  filled  and  overflowed  with 
tears. 

I  wish  that  it  were  in  the  veracious  se 
quence  of  this  simple  history  to  give  this  way 
ward  boy  back  to  the  hearts  that  loved  him, 
and  that  still  in  memory  enshrine  him  with 
affectionate  regard  ;  but  the  hapless  lad — the 
little  ragged  twelve-year-old  that  wandered 
16 


242  "  THE    BOY   FROM    ZEENY." 

out  of  nowhere  into  town,  and  wandered  into 
nowhere  out  again — never  returned.  Yet  we 
who  knew  him  in  those  old  days — we  who 
were  children  with  him,  and,  in  spite  of  boy 
ish  jealousies  and  petty  bickerings,  admired 
the  gallant  spirit  of  the  lad,  are  continually 
meeting  with  reminders  of  him — the  last  in 
stance  of  which,  in  my  own  experience,  I  can 
not  here  refrain  from  offering  : 

For  years  I  have  been  a  wanderer  from  the 
dear  old  town  of  my  nativity,  but  through  all 
my  wanderings  a  gracious  fate  has  always 
kept  me  somewheres  in  its  pleasant  neighbor 
hood,  and,  in  consequence,  I  often  pay  brief 
visits  to  the  scenes  of  my  long-vanished  boy 
hood.  It  was  during  such  a  visit,  but  a  fev 
short  years  ago,  that  remembrances  of  my  loa« 
youth  were  most  forcibly  recalled  by  the  pro- 
gress  of  the  county  fair,  which  institution  1 
was  permitted  to  attend  through  the  kindness 
of  an  old  chum  who  drove  me  over  in  mj 
buggy. 

Although  it  was  not  the  day  for  racing,  we 
found  the  track  surrounded  by  a  dense  crowd 
of  clamorous  and  applausive  people. 

"What  docs  it  mean?"  I  asked  my  friend, 
as  he  guided  his  horse  in  and  out  among  the 
trees  toward  the  edge  of  the  enclosure. 

"It's  Professor  Andrus,  I  suspect,"  he  an- 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY."  243 

swered,  rising  in  the  buggy  as  he  spoke,  and 
peering  eagerly  above  the  heads  of  the  surg 
ing  multitude. 

"And  who's  Professor  Andrus?"  I  asked, 
striking  a  match  against  the  tire  of  the  now 
stationary  buggy-wheel,  and  lighting  the 
stump  of  my  cigar. 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard  of  the  famous 
Professor?"  he  answered,  laughingly — imme 
diately  adding  in  a  serious  tone  :  "  Professor 
Andrus  is  the  famous  '  horse-tamer '  who  has 
been  driving  the  country  absolutely  wild  here 
for  two  or  three  days.  Stand  up  here  where 
you  can  see  I  "  he  went  on,  excitedly, 

"Yonder  he  comes!     Isn't  that  splendid?" 

And  it  was. 

Across  the  sea  of  heads,  and  facing  toward 
us  down  the  track,  I  caught  sight  of  a  glossy 
span  of  horses  that  in  their  perfect  beauty  of 
symmetry,  high  heads  and  tossing  manes, 
looked  as  though  they  were  just  prancing  out 
of  some  Arabian  dream.  The  animals  seemed 
nude  of  rein  or  harness,  save  but  a  jeweled 
strap  that  crossed  the  breast  of  each,  together 
with  a  slender  trace  at  either  side  connecting 
with  a  jaunty  little  phaeton  whose  glittering 
wheels  slivered  the  sunshine  into  splinters  as 
they  spun.  Upon  the  narrow  seat  of  the  airy 
vehicle  sat  the  driver.  No  lines  were  wound 


244  "THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY." 

about  his  hands — no  shout  or  lash  to  goad  the 
horses  to  their  telling  speed.  They  were 
simply  directed  and  controlled  by  the  grace 
ful  motions  of  a  long  and  slender  whip  which 
waved  slowly  to  and  fro  above  their  heads- 
The  great  crowd  cheered  the  master  as  he 
came.  He  arose  deliberately,  took  off  his  hat 
and  bowed.  The  applause  was  deafening. 
Still  standing,  he  whizzed  past  us  and  was 
gone.  But  something  in  the  manner  of  the 
handsome  fellow  struck  me  with  a  strange 
sense  of  familiarity.  Was  it  the  utter  disre 
gard  of  fear  that  I  saw  within  his  face  ?  Was- 
it  the  keenness  of  the  eye,  and  the  perfect- 
self-possession  of  the  man?  Or  was  it — was 
it  the  peculiar  way  in  which  the  right  arm  had 
dropped  to  his  side  after  his  salute  to  us  while 
curving  past  us,  and  did  I  fancy,  for  that  rea 
son,  that  the  palm  of  his  hand  turned  forward- 
as  he  stood? 

"  Clear  the  track,  there  !  "  came  a  far  voice 
across  the  ring.  "  Don't  cross  there,  in  God's- 
name  !  Drive  back  !  " 

The  warning  evidently  came  too  late.  There 
was  an  instant's  breathless  silence,  then  a  far 
away,  pent-sounding  clash,  then  utter  havoc 
in  the  crowd.  The  ropes  about  the  ring  were 
broken  over,  and  a  tumultuous  tide  of  people 


"  THE    BOY    FROM    ZEENY."  245 

poured  across  the  ring,  myself  borne  on  the 
very  foremost  wave. 

"Just  the  buggy  smashed,  that's  all,"  cried 
s.  voice.  "The  hosses  haint  hurt — ner  the 
man." 

The  man  referred  to  was  the  Professor.  I 
•caught  a  glimpse  of  him  as  he  rose  from  the 
grassy  bank  where  he  had  been  flung.  He 
was  very  pale,  but  calm.  An  uncouth  man 
"brought  him  his  silk  hat  from  where  it  had 
rolled  in  the  dust. 

"Wish  you'd  just  take  this  handkerchief 
and  brush  it  off,"  said  the  Professor ;  "  I  guess 
I've  broke  my  arm." 

*/ 

It  was  The  Boy  from  Zeeny. 


THE  OLD  MAN. 


THE  ORCHARD  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago ! 
0  drowsy  winds,  awake,  and  blow 
The  snowy  blossoms  back  to  me, 
A  nd  all  the  buds  that  used  to  be  I 
Slow  back  along  the  grassy  ways 
Of  truant  feet,  and  lift  the  haze 
Of  happy  summer  from  the  trees 
That  trail  their  tresses  in  the  seas 
Of  grain  that  float  and  overflow 
The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago! 

Blow  back  the  melody  that  slips 

In  lazy  laughter  from  the  lips 

That  marvel  much  if  any  kiss 

Is  sweeter  than  the  apple's  is. 

Slow  back  the  twitter  of  the  birds — 

The  lisp,  the  titter,  and  the  words 

Of  merriment  that  found  the  shine 

Of  summertime  a  glorious  wine 

That  drenched  the  leaves  that  loved  it  so, 

In  orchard  lands  of  Long  Agot 

0  memory/  alight  and  sing 
Where  rosy-bellied  pippins  cling, 
And  golden  russets  glint  and  gleam, 
As,  in  the  old  Arabian  dream, 
The  fruits  of  that  enchanted  tree 
The  glad  Aladdin  robbed  for  me ! 
And,  drowsy  winds,  awake  and  fan 
My  blood  as  when  it  over-ran 
A  heart,  ripe  as  the  apples  grow 
In  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  I 

(248) 


THE  OLD  MAN. 

£  Response  made  to  the  sentiment,  "  The  Old  Man,"  at  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Indianapolis  Literary  Club.] 

u  '  You  are  old,  Father  William,'  the  young  man  said, 
'  And  your  hair  has  become  very  white, 

And  yet  you  incessantly  stand  on  your  head- 
Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right  ?  " 

THE  Old  Man  never  grows  so  old  as  to 
become  either  stale,  juiceless  or  un 
palatable.  The  older  he  grows,  the  mellower 
and  riper  he  becomes.  His  eyes  may  fail 
him,  his  step  falter  and  his  big-mouthed  shoes 
— "A  world  too  wide  for  his  shrunk  shanks" 
— may  cluck  and  shuffle  as  he  walks  ;  his 
rheumatics  may  make  great  knuckles  of  his 
knees,  the  rusty  hinges  of  his  vertebras  may 
refuse  to  cunningly  articulate,  but  all  the  same 
the  "  backbpne "  of  the  old  man  has  been 
time-seasoned,  tried  and  tested,  and  no  deer 
skin  vest  was  ever  buttoned  round  a  tougher  I 
Look  at  the  eccentric  kinks  and  curvings  of 
it — its  abrupt  depression  at  the  base,  and  its 
rounded  bulging  at  the  shoulders ;  but  don't 

(249) 


25O  THE    OLD    MAN. 

laugh  at  the  smart  young  man  who  airily  ob 
serves  how  full-chested  the  old  man  would  be 
if  his  head  were  only  turned  around,  and  don't 
kill  the  young  man,  either,  until  you  take  him 
out  some  place  and  tell  him  that  the  old  man  got 
himself  warped  up  in  that  shape  along  about 
the  times  when  everybody  had  to  hump  him 
self.  Try  to  bring  before  the  young  man's 
defective  mental  vision  a  dissolving  view  of  a 
"  good  old-fashioned  barn-raisin'  " — and  the 
old  man  doing  all  the  "  raisin'  "  himself — and 
"grubbin',"  and  burnin'  logs  and  "under 
brush,"  and  "  dreenin'  "  at  the  same  time, 
and  trying  to  coax  something  besides  cala 
mus  to  grow  in  the  little  spongy  tract  of 
swamp-land  that  he  could  stand  in  the  middle 
of,  and  "  wobble"  and  shake  the  whole  farm. 
Or,  if  you  can't  recall  the  many  salient  fea 
tures  of  the  minor  disadvantages  under  which 
the  old  man  used  to  labor,  your  pliant  limbs 
may  soon  overtake  him,  and  he  will  smilingly 
tell  you  of  trials  and  privations  of  the  early 
days,  until  your  anxiety  about  the  young  man 
just  naturally  stagnates,  and  dries  up,  and 
evaporates,  and  blows  away. 

In  this  little  side-show  of  existence  the  old 
man  is  always  worth  the  full  price  of  admis 
sion.  He  is  not  only  the  greatest  living  curi 
osity  on  exhibition,  but  the  object  of  the  most 


THE    OLD    MAN.  251 

genial  solicitude  and  interest  to  the  serious 
observer.  It  is  even  good  to  look  upon  his 
vast  fund  of  afflictions,  finding  prominent 
above  them  all  that  wholesome  patience  that 
surpasseth  understanding.  To  compassion 
ately  dwell  upon  his  prodigality  of  aches  and 
ailments,  and  yet,  by  his  pride  in  their  whole 
sale  possession,  and  his  thorough  resignation 
to  the  inevitable,  to  be  continually  rebuked, 
and  in  part  made  envious  of  the  old  man's 
right-of-title  situation.  Nature,  after  all,  is 
kinder  than  unkind  to  him,  and  always  has  a 
compensation  and  a  soothing  balm  for  every 
blow  that  age  may  deal  him.  And  in  the 
fading  embers  of  the  old  man's  eyes  there  are, 
at  times,  swift  flashes  and  rekindlings  of  the 
smiles  of  youth,  and  the  old  artlessness  about 
the  wrinkled  face  that  dwelt  there  when  his 
cheeks  were  like  the  pippins,  and  his 

" red  lips,  redder  still, 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill." 

And  thus  it  is  the  children  are  intuitively 
drawn  toward  him,  and  young,  pure-faced 
mothers  are  forever  hovering  about  him,  with 
just  such  humorings  and  kindly  ministrations 
as  they  bestow  upon  the  little  emperor  of  the 
household  realm,  strapped  in  his  high  chair  at 
the  dinner  table,  crying  amen  in  the  midst  of 


252  THE    OLD    MAN. 

41  grace,"  .and  ignoring  the  "  substantiate  "  Oi. 
the  groaning  board,  and  at  once  insisting  upon 
a  square  deal  of  the  more  "temporal  bless 
ings"  of  jelly,  cake  and  pie.  And  the  old 
man  has  justly  earned  every  distinction  he 
enjoys.  Therefore,  let  him  make  your  hearth 
stone  all  the  brighter  with  the  ruddy  coal  he 
•drags  up  from  it  with  his  pipe,  and  comfort 
ably  settles  himself  where,  with  reminiscent 
eyes,  he  may  watch  the  curling  smoke  of  his 
tobacco  as  it  indolently  floats,  and  drifts,  and 
dips  at  last,  and  vanishes  up  the  grateful  flue. 
At  such  times,  when  a  five-year-old,  what  a 
haven  every  boy  has  found  between  the  old 
grandfather's  knees  !  Look  back  in  fancy  at 
the  faces  blending  there — the  old  man's  and 
the  boy's — and,  with  the  nimbus  of  the  smoke- 
wreaths  round  the  brows — the  gilding  of  the 
firelight  on  cheek  and  chin,  and  the  rapt  and 
far-off  gazings  of  the  eyes  of  both — why,  but 
for  the  silver  tinsel  of  the  beard  of  one,  and 
dusky  elf-locks  of  the  other,  the  faces  seem 
almost  like  twins. 

With  such  a  view  of  age,  one  feels  like 
whipping  up  the  lazy  years  and  getting  old  at 
once.  In  heart  and  soul  the  old  man  is  not 
old — and  never  will  be.  He  is  paradoxically 
old,  and  that  is  all.  So  it  is  that  he  grows 
younger  with  increasing  years,  until  old  age 


THE    OLD    MAN.  253 

at  worst  is  always  at  a  level  par  with  youth. 
Who  ever  saw  a  man  so  old  as  not  to  secretly 
and  most  heartily  wish  the  veteran  years  upon 
years  of  greater  age?  And  at  what  great  age 
did  ever  any  old  man  pass  away  and  leave  be 
hind  no  sudden  shock,  and  no  selfish  hearts 
to  still  yearn  after  him  and  grieve  on  uncon- 
soled.  Why,  even  in  the  slow  declining  years 
of  old  Methuselah — the  banner  old  man  of 
the  universe — so  old  that  history  grew  abso 
lutely  tired  waiting  for  him  to  go  off  some 
place  and  die  ;  even  Methuselah's  taking  off 
must  have  seemed  abrupt  to  his  immediate 
friends,  and  a  blow  to  the  general  public  that 
doubtless  plunged  it  into  the  profoundest 
gloom.  For  969  years  this  durable  old  man 
had  "smelt  the  rose  above  the  mold,"  and 
doubtless  had  a  thousand  times  been  told  by 
congratulative  friends  that  he  didn't  look  a 
day  older  than  968  ;  and  necessarily,  the  habit 
of  living,  with  him,  was  hard  to  overcome.  In 
his  later  years  what  an  oracle  he  must  have 
been,  and  with  what  reverence  his  friends 
must  have  looked  upon  the  "little  glassy- 
headed,  hairless  man,"  and  hung  upon  his 
every  utterance.  And  with  what  unerring 
gift  of  prophecy  could  he  foretell  the  long 
and  husky  droughts  of  summer — the  gracious 
rains,  at  last, — the  milk-sick  breeding  autumn 


254  THE    OT-n    MAN. 

and  the  blighting  winter,  simply  by  the  way 
his  bones  felt  after  a  century's  casual  attack 
of  inflammatory  rheumatism.  And,  having 
annually  frosted  his  feet  for  some  odd  centu 
ries — boy  and  man — we  can  fancy  with  what 
quiet  delight  he  was  wont  to  practice  his 
prognosticating  facilities  on  "  the  boys,"  fore 
casting  the  coming  of  the  then  fledgeling  cy 
clone  and  the  gosling  blizzard,  and  doubtless 
«ven  telling  the  day  of  the  month  by  the  way 
his  heels  itched  And  with  what  wonderment 
and  awe  must  old  chronic  maladies  have  re 
garded  him — tackling  him  singly,  or  in  solid 
phalanx,  only  to  drop  back  pantingly,  at  last, 
and  slink  away  dumbfounded  and  abashed ; 
and  with  what  brazen  pride  the  final  conquer 
ing  disease  must  have  exulted  over  its  shame 
less  victory  !  But  this  is  pathos  here,  and  not 
a  place  for  ruthless  speculation ;  a  place  for 
asterisks — not  words.  Peace!  peace!  The 
man  is  dead!  "The  fever  called  living  is 
over  at  last."  The  patient  slumbers.  He 
takes  his  rest.  He  sleeps.  Come  away  !  He 
is  the  oldest  dead  man  in  the  cemetery. 

Whether  the  hardy,  stall-fed  old  man  of 
the  country,  or  the  opulent  and  well-groomed 
old  man  of  the  metroplis,  he  is  one  in  our  es 
teem  and  the  still  warmer  affections  of  the 
children.  The  old  man  from  the  country — 


THE    OLD    MAN.  255 

you  are  always  glad  to  see  him,  and  hear  him 
talk.  There  is  a  breeziness  of  the  woods  and 
hills,  and  a  spice  of  the  bottom-lands  and 
thickets  in  everything  he  says,  and  dashes  of 
shadow  and  sunshine  over  the  waving  wheat 
in  all  the  varying  expressions  of  his  swarthy 
face.  The  grip  of  his  hand  is  a  thing  to  bet 
on,  and  the  undue  loudness  of  his  voice  in 
greeting  you  is  even  lulling  and  melodious, 
since  it  unconsciously  argues  the  frankness  of 
a  nature  that  has  nothing  to  conceal.  Very 
probably  you  are  forced  to  smile,  meeting  the 
old  man  in  town,  where  he  never  seems  at 
ease,  and  invariably  apologizes  in  some  way 
for  his  presence,  saying,  perhaps,  by  way  of 
explanation:  "Yes,  sir,  here  I  am,  in  spite 
o'  myself.  Come  in  day  afore  yesterday. 
Boys  was  thrashin'  on  the  place,  and  the 
beltin'  kep'  a  troublin'  and  delayin'  of  'em — 
and  I  was  potterin'  around  in  the  way  any 
how — tell  finally  they  sent  me  off  to  town  to 
git  some  whang-luther  and  ribbets,  and  while 
I  was  in,  I  thought — I  thought  I'd  jest  run 
over  and  see  the  Jedge  about  that  Henry 
county  matter,  and  as  I  was  knockin'  round 
the  court  house,  first  thing  I  knowed  I'll  be 
switched  to  death  if  they  didn't  pop  me  on  the 
jury  !  And  here  I  am,  eatin'  my  head  off  up 
here  at  the  tavern.  Reckon,  tho',  the  county'll 


256  THE    OLD    MAN. 

stand  good  for  my  expenses.  If  hit  cain't,  I 
kin  !  "  And,  with  the  heartiest  sort  of  a 
laugh,  the  old  man  jogs  along,  leaving  you  to 
smile  till  bedtime  over  the  happiness  he  has 
unconsciously  contributed. 

Another  instance  of  the  old  man's  humor 
under  trying  circumstances  was  developed  but 
a  few  days  since.  This  old  man  was  a  Ger 
man  citizen  of  an  inundated  town  in  the  Ohio 
valley.  There  was  much  of  the  pathetic  in 
his  experience — but  the  bravery  with  which 
he  bore  his  misfortunes  was  admirable.  A 
year  ago  his  little  home  was  invaded  by  the 
flood,  and  himself  and  wife,  and  his  son's  fam 
ily  were  driven  from  it  to  the  hills  for  safety — 
but  the  old  man's  telling  of  the  story  can  not 
be  improved  upon.  It  ran  like  this:  "Last 
year,  ven  I  svwim  out  fon  dot  leedle  home  off 
mine,  mit  my  vife,  unt  my  son,  his  vife  unt 
leedle  girls,  I  dink  dot's  der  last  time,  goot- 
bye  to  dose  proberty  !  But  afder  der  vater  it 
gone  down — unt  dry  oop — unt  eberding,  dere 
vas  yet  der  house  dere.  Unt  my  friends  dey 
sait,  'Dot's  all  you  got!  Veil,  feex  oop  der 
house — dot's  someting !  feex  oop  der  house, 
unt  you  vood  still  hatt  yet  a  home  ! '  Veil,  all 
summer — I  go  to  work,  unt  spent  me  eberding 
unt  feex  der  proberty.  Den  I  got  yet  a  mor- 
gage  on  der  house  !  Dees  time  here  der  vater 


THE    OLD    MAN.  257 

come  again — till  I  vish  it  vas  last  year  vonce  I 
Unt  now  all  I  safe  is  my  vife,  unt  my  son  his 
vife,  unt  my  leedle  granchilderns  !  Else,  ever- 
ding  is  gone!  All  —  everding ! — Der  house 
gone  —  unt — unt  —  der  morgage  gone,  too!" 
And  then  the  old  Teutonic  face  "melted  all 
over  in  sunshiny  smiles,"  and,  turning,  he 
bent  and  lifted  a  sleepy  little  girl  from  a  pile 
of  dirty  bundles  in  the  depot  waiting-room 
and  went  pacing  up  and  down  the  muddy 
floor,  saying  cheery  things  in  German  to  the 
child.  I  thought  the  whole  thing  rather  beau 
tiful.  That's  the  kind  of  an  old  man  who, 
saying  good-bye  to  his  son,  would  lean  and 
kiss  the  young  man's  hand,  as  in  the  Dutch 
regions  of  Pennsylvania,  two  or  three  weeks 
ago,  I  saw  an  old  man  do. 

Mark  Lemon  must  have  intimately  known 
and  loved  the  genteel  old  man  of  the  city  when 
the  once  famous  domestic  drama  of  "Grand 
father  Whitehead  "  was  conceived.  In  the 
play  the  old  man — a  once  prosperous  mer 
chant — finds  a  happy  home  in  the  household 
of  his  son-in-law.  And  here  it  is  that  the  gen 
tle  author  has  drawn  at  once  the  poem,  the 
picture,  and  the  living  proof  of  the  old  Words- 
worthian  axiom,  "The  child  is  father  to  the 
man."  The  old  man,  in  his  simple  way,  and 

'7 


258  THE    OLD    MAN. 

in  his  great  love  for  his  willful  little  grand 
child,  is  being  continually  distracted  from  the 
grave  sermons  and  moral  lessons  he  would 
read  the  boy.  As,  for  instance,  aggrievedly 
attacking  the  little  fellow's  neglect  of  his 
books  and  his  inordinate  tendency  toward 
idleness  and  play — the  culprit,  in  the  mean 
time,  down  on  the  floor  clumsily  winding  his 
top — the  old  man  runs  on  something  in  this 
wise : 

"Play!  play!  play!  Always  play  and  no 
work,  no  study,  no  lessons.  And  here  you 
are,  the  only  child  of  the  most  indulgent 
parents  in  the  world — parents  that,  proud  as 
they  are  of  you,  would  be  ten  times  prouder 
only  to  see  you  at  your  book,  storing  your 
mind  with  useful  knowledge,  instead  of,  day 
in,  day  out,  frittering  away  your  time  over 
your  toys,  and  your  tops  and  marbles.  And 
even  when  your  old  grandfather  tries  to  ad 
vise  you  and  wants  to  help  you,  and  is  always 
ready  and  eager  to  assist  you,  and  all — Why, 
what's  it  all  amount  to?  Coax  and  beg,  and 
tease  and  plead  with  you,  and  yet,  and  yet" 
—  [Mechanically  kneeling  as  he  speaks] 
"Now  that's  not  the  way  to  wind  your  top ! 
How  many  more  times  will  I  have  to  show 
you ! "  And  an  instant  later  the  old  man's 
admonitions  are  entirely  forgotten,  and  his 


THE    OLD    MAN.  259 

artless  nature — dull  now  to  everything  but  the 
childish  glee  in  which  he  shares,  is  all  the 
sweeter  and  more  lovable  for  its  simplicity. 

And  so  it  is,  Old  Man,  that  you  are  always 
touching  the  very  tenderest  places  in  our 
hearts — unconsciously  appealing  to  our  warm 
est  sympathies,  and  taking  to  yourself  our 
purest  love.  We  look  upon  your  drooping 
figure,  and  we  mark  your  tottering  step  and 
trembling  hand,  yet  a  reliant  something  in 
your  face  forbids  compassion,  and  a  something 
in  your  eye  will  not  permit  us  to  look  sorrow 
fully  on  you.  And,  however  we  may  smile 
at  your  quaint  ways,  and  old-school  oddities 
of  manner  and  of  speech,  our  merriment  is 
ever  tempered  with  the  gentlest  reverence. 

"THE  OLD  MAN." 

Lo  !  steadfast  and  serene, 
In  patient  pause  between 
The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

What  gentle  zephyrs  fan 
Your  silken  silver  hair, 
And  what  diviner  air 
Breathes  round  you  like  a  prayer, 
Old  Man? 

Can  you,  in  nearer  view 
Of  glory,  pierce  the  blue 
Of  happy  heaven  through, 
And,  listen  mutely,  can 


26O  THE    OLD    MAN. 

Your  senses,  dull  to  us, 
Hear  angel-voices  thus, 
In  chorus  glorious — 
Old  Man  ? 

In  your  reposeful  gaze 
The  dusk  of  Autumn  days 
Is  blent  with  April  haze, 

As  when  of  old  began 
The  bursting  of  the  bud 
Of  rosy  babyhood — 
When  all  the  world  was  good, 
Old  Man. 

And  yet  I  find  a  sly 
Little  twinkle  in  your  eye  ; 
And  your  whisperingly  shy 

Little  laugh  is  simply  an 
Internal  shout  of  glee 
That  betrays  the  fallacy 
You'd  perpetrate  on  me, 
Old  Man! 

So  just  put  up  the  frown 

That  your  brows  are  pulling  down! 

Why  the  fleetest  boy  in  town, 

As  he  bared  his  feet  and  ran, 
Could  read  with  half  a  glance — 
And  of  keen  rebuke,  perchance — 
Your  secret  countenance, 
Old  Man ! 

Now,  honestly,  confess : 
Is  an  old  man  any  less 
Than  the  little  child  we  bless 
And  caress,  when  we  can? 


THE    OLD    MAN.  26 1 

Isn't  age  but  just  a  place 
Where  you  mask  the  childish  face 
To  preserve  its  inner  grace, 
Old  Man? 

Hasn't  age  a  truant  day, 
Just  as  that  you  went  astray 
In  the  wayward,  restless  way, 

When,  brown  with  dust  and  «an, 
Your  roguish  face  essayed, 
In  solemn  masquerade, 
To  hide  the  smile  it  made, 
Old  Man? 

Now,  fair,  and  square,  and  true, 
Don't  your  old  soul  tremble  through, 
As  in  youth  it  used  to  do 

When  it  brimmed  and  overran 
With  the  strange,  enchanted  sighta, 
And  the  splendors  and  delights 
Of  the  old  "Arabian  Nights," 
Old  Man? 

When,  haply,  you  have  fared 
Where  glad  Aladdin  shared 
His  lamp  with  you,  and  dared 

The  afrite  and  his  clan; 
And,  with  him,  clambered  through 
The  trees  where  jewels  grew — 
And  filled  your  pockets,  too, 
Old  Man? 

Or,  with  Sinbad,  at  sea — 
And  in  veracity 
Who  has  sinned  as  bad  as  he, 
Or  would,  or  will,  or  can? 


262  THE    OLD    MAN. 

Have  yon  listened  to  his  lies, 
With  open  mouth  and  eyes, 
And  learned  his  art  likewise, 
Old  Man  ? 

And  you  need  not  deny 

That  your  eyes  were  wet  as  dry, 

Reading  novels  on  the  sly  ! 

And  review  them,  if  you  can. 
And  the  same  warm  tears  will  fall- 
Only  faster,  that  is  all — 
Over  little  Nell  and  Paul, 
Old  Man ! 

O,  you  were  a  lucky  lad — 
Just  as  good  as  you  were  bad ! 
And  the  host  of  friends  you  had — 

Charley,  Tom,  and  Dick  and  Dan; 

And  the  old  school-teacher,  too, 

Though  he  often  censured  you  ; 

And  the  girls  in  pink  and  blue, 

Old  Man. 

And — as  often  you  have  leant, 
A  boyish  sentiment, 
To  kiss  the  letter  sent 

By  Nelly,  Belle  or  Nan — 
Wherein  the  rose's  hue 
Was  red,  the  violet  blue — 
And  sugar  sweet — and  you, 
Old  Man. 

So,  to-day,  as  lives  the  bloom 
And  the  sweetness,  and  perfume 
Of  the  blossoms,  I  assume, 

On  the  same  mysterious  plan 


THE    OLD    MAN.  263 

The  Master's  love  assures, 
That  the  self-same  boy  endures 
In  that  hale  old  heart  of  yours, 
Old  Man 


" 


The 


J> 


ope  J)oeme, 


BENJ.  F,  JOHNSON,  OF  BOOM 


[JAM  us  WHITCOMB  KILKY.] 


SECOND  KDITION. 


INDIANAPOLIS. 
THE  BOWEN- MERRILL  Co.,  PUBLISHERS  ANDBOOKSEI.LERS. 

issr,. 


THOUGHTS   FER   THE   PISCTKAGED 


^    i    -.:.:.:  '-  -  -    .;    .     :       ;    ; 

b!oo>min"  locus"  trees; 
And  the  dorer  in  the  pastor'  is  a  big  day 

fer  the  bees, 
And    they  beat  a-~wiggm    boner,   above 

!_:.". 
Till  thev  sTutter  in  their  buzzin".  and  stagger 

as  they  fir. 
The  flicker  on  the  fence-nfl  'pours  to  jest 

And  roil  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way 

he  sing?: 
And  the  h-:«55-2y  is  a-whettin'-up  his  fore- 

leas  fer  biz. 


asther 


Oh,  therr  bound  to    git  therr  Irekfast 
and  therr  not  a  carin  how: 


DISCTRAGED  FARMER. 

So  they  quarrel  in  the  fames,  and  they 

_•— 
But  theyr  peaeeabler  in  pot-pies  than  any 

other  thing : 
And  its  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  «p 

in  stiddy  rest. 
She's  as  fall  of  tribbeiation  a*   a  yaller- 

jacket  s  nest: 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  th? 

sun  s  a-shinin'  right, 
Seems  to  kindo-sono  sharpen  up  a  feller  s 

appetite! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'   rain,  bat  the  sun's 

out  to-day, 
And  the  clouds   of  the   wet   spefl    is   all 

cleared  a^iv. 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the 

grass  is  greener  still; 
It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but   I  don't 

-:    :  ~ 
Some  says  tlie  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn"? 

drown  Jed  out, 
And  prepha-?y  the  wheat  win  be  a  failure. 

without  doubt; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never 

failed  us  yet, 


I    ublisrjers 


ote. 


The  first  edition   of  Mr.    Riley's 


wimmm 


•  '  W 

m  -r  l 


met  with  a  very  cordial  reception,  and  was 
exhausted  in  a  few  months. 

A  second  edition,  with  red  line  border,  as 
these  sample  pages  show,  was  issued,  and 
that  too  was  soon  exhausted. 

The  hearty  welcome  accorded  the  two 
editions  warrants  us  in  placing  before!  the 
public  another  issue,  and  assures  us  of  a 
widely  extended  sale, 

Respectfully, 


I  96    kj 


erril 


Publishers,  Booksellers  and  Stationers. 


